


Stolen

by ishipitsobad



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Greek Mythology, Angry Sharon, Charles Xavier has a Ph.D in Adorable, Charles is confused, Dubious Consent, Erik Logic Is The Best Logic, Erik has Feelings, Erik is Crushing Harder than a 12-year Old Girl, F/M, Greek Mythology - Freeform, Hades and Persephone - AU, Kidnapping, M/M, Mpreg, On Hiatus, Protective Erik, Protective Sharon, Smitten Erik, matchmaking Raven
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-06
Updated: 2015-01-27
Packaged: 2018-02-28 09:27:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 26,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2727278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ishipitsobad/pseuds/ishipitsobad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik is a miserable, grumpy, cantankerous bastard, and he has every fucking right to be. He drew the short end of the stick when he got the Underworld as his domain, and there isn't very much fun to be had in judging and governing dead souls who would rather be anywhere else but with Erik in the depths of Hell.</p><p>So when he meets Charles, brilliant and lovely Charles who is more popularly known amongst the mortals as Persephone, and feels the promise of something wonderful that could make his eternally doomed existence infinitely more bearable... you can bet all your drachmas Erik's not going to let Charles go any fucking time soon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ένα: First Encounters

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Black_Betty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Black_Betty/gifts), [GQD](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GQD/gifts), [velvetcadence](https://archiveofourown.org/users/velvetcadence/gifts), [spicedpiano](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spicedpiano/gifts), [tahariel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tahariel/gifts), [Ook](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ook/gifts), [Pangea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pangea/gifts).



> I dedicate this to the lovely authors and artists who have turned me into a possessed fangirl who internally screams at the very suggestion of CHERIK. In particular, this was inspired by Black_Betty's "Buried a Second Time".

As a general rule, Erik never spent more than a few hours above ground. He despised it, but not for the reasons most people assumed: contrary to popular belief, Erik didn’t actually hate humans. As a matter of fact, he sympathized with the race, for they were perpetually subjected to the caprices and mercy of his family.

And he was the one who had to pick up the pieces after every fucking sibling squabble, every parent-child row, every spousal spat that scorched and razed the Earth with its empyrean intensity. Hundreds turned to thousands, thousands turned to millions of lives that were snuffed out as quickly as they had been lit, for human lives were as ephemeral as the very winds that sometimes filled their lungs or ravaged their dwellings at the behest of the gods.

Yes, Erik was more infamous and widely known as Hades, the God of Death and ruler of Hell. He’d drawn the short end of the stick when his and his siblings’ sire had fallen at their hands, suffering the sunless, lifelessness and darkness of the underground as his kingdom. Centuries’ worth of souls, all his to keep and govern. Nothing like the eternal celebration and partying that was his oldest brother’s Olympus, or the mysterious but no less vivid oceans of his second brother’s. Zeus and Poseidon, as humans inconsiderately named them as they had named him with their mundane imaginations, were better known to Erik as Shaw and Janos respectively. They frequently took mirth at his expense, gloating over the richness and wonders of their own kingdoms and the wealth of worship and admiration they received, in contrast to the bleakness and fear Erik was doomed to endure for as long as there was life to give it.

But for all that humans only whispered his name in fear of being cursed, Erik found them a rather amusing species. Certainly more advanced than their distantly related (though the connection was yet to be perceived) family, the apes.

He was thinking that now, as he meandered unknown and anonymous through the paths of a small but peaceful village in the countryside of Sicily, not entirely certain if he had a fixed destination in mind but rather just enjoying the warmth of the sunlight after a particularly trying judgement session in Hell. A handful of souls, still unwilling to accept their deaths, were being most uncooperative. Erik’s head was figuratively aching, and he’d escaped above ground for a bit of a change.

The path grew more untamed, leading into the unsowed fields and wild meadows that humans had yet to conquer with their tools. The air was cleaner, more refreshing than in the village, with less to none populating the area. Erik’s eyes fluttered shut as a soothing breeze caressed his material form, and he reveled in it. The ache in his temples faded to a near-nonexistent simmer, at least until he had to return to reclaim his throne and resume his duties, but for now…

A quiet humming filled Erik’s ears once the whistling of the breeze had subsided to a tickle on his skin, and surprised that he had failed to detect the presence of a mortal, Erik spun around to seek out the source.

Nestled among the tall grass with flowers all straining to get his attention with their bright colors, was a man. He could not have been older than two human decades, his skin unlined and unmarred, all soft and smooth and untainted. His hair was the color of the dark sorrel and polished mahogany wood, and under the thick fan of his lashes, Erik spied the striking cerulean blue of the Mediterranean oceans that his brother sometimes dwelled in and ruled. His lips, snagged under his teeth, were as red as the apples that humans harvested and enjoyed for their sweetness. This man was all brilliant effervescence, exuding an aura of unadulterated purity and contentment.

The aura of a god. And because Erik didn’t recognize him, it meant he was a fairly young god, conceived by one of his esteemed siblings or their equally powerful and similarly tempestuous offspring.

Erik would have been more startled, more stunned, if not for the fact that the only coherent thought in his mind was that he _wanted_. Deeply, viscerally, unquestionably.

He wanted this man, this god, in his arms. On his lap. In his bed. Beside his throne.

Forever.

Erik cleared his throat, and the young god looked up, clearly as unaware of Erik’s presence as he’d been just moments ago. His eyes were indeed the shade of sapphires that adorned the throat of mistresses or wives of wealthy men, and they were glowing with _life_. A tentative smile spread across the young god’s face, and he ducked his head shyly, either out of salutation or respect or apology for not earlier noticing Erik. He seemed to hesitate when Erik continued to stare without responding (he was actually dumstruck that such a magnificent, beautiful god was in existence, and he was not informed), and got to his feet. The toga that draped from his supple shoulder was all white silk, the color of the pure. His build was lithe and softly-muscled, nothing vulgarly overt or poorly undernourished. It was perfect for embracing, and Erik desperately yearned in that moment, with a fire sparking in his groin, to explore and memorize every nook and cranny of it.

  “Um, hello?”

Even his _voice_ was alluring in its own right. A wweet, melodious tenor with gentle modulations, no doubt a clue of his equally gentle and lovely nature.

Erik inhaled sharply to speak, and was once again struck speechless when he was downwind of the god, and the breeze helpfully (or not) carried his scent towards him: he smelled of honeysuckle, morning dew and fecundity. He was not entirely sure he was not drooling right there and then.

  “Is… everything alright?”

Worry was laced into his tone now, and it was apparent in the concerned furrow of his brow, the fretting set of his beautiful mouth.

  “I… Erik cleared his throat again, quickly recovering his composure and his voice. “Yes. Who are you?”

He had not meant to sound quite so harsh or blunt, but it seemed this young god was immune to the rustiness of Erik’s social skills (there wasn’t very much socialising for Erik to practice in the depths of the Underworld, what with only his three-headed beast Cerberus and the seemingly endless community of the dead to practice on). The young god smiled, clearly and curiously delighted to make Erik’s acquaintance. Perhaps he would not be quite so delighted once he knew just whose acquaintance he was making, Erik inwardly mused as his thoughts took a darker turn in the face of such sincere happiness.

  “I’m Persephone,” the young god gave a elegant and swift bow. “But you can call me Charles.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do let me know if I should go on. This is my first time writing a Cherik fanfic.


	2. δύο: And So It Goes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles and Erik's first exchange, and introducing "Zeus" and "Aphrodite" (and "Hera", sort of).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the poor updating schedule, I'm not usually this terrible -- I'm having test week right now, and I'm really stressing out (not to mention my dad's confiscated my laptop so now I'm kind of sneaking around).

Charles was equal parts terrified and confused, and justifiably so.

The man standing a scant _ὄργυια_ from him, in his beloved Sicilian meadow where humans were rarely allowed access to and were kept unaware of by his choice, should not be where he was and should not be staring at Charles with such frightening intensity. His gaze was, however, unreadably blank. That left Charles unable to decipher the reasons or emotions that turned the wheels inside this man’s mind, or give him a clue as to exactly _who_ he was.

But in that errant, anti-climatic and exasperatingly untimely part of his mind, Charles found him undeniably appealing in terms of aesthetics: cheekbones and a jawline that looked like it had been carved from stone and could cut as much, tall and imposing stature and hair like the dark copper his older cousin Hank (mortals liked to call him some long complicated name that Charles never really bothered to remember) sometimes worked with in his fiery forge inside Mount Vesuvius. He wore a toga made of a fabric and a color that Charles had never seen the likes of before—it seemed to move, even when the wind died down, rippling in a strange manner and casting _shadows_ inside itself even though it seemed to be blacker than raw coals. His arms were laced with whipcord muscles, decorated by gold armbands that only accentuated the dormant power. Under one of his arms was inexplicably a helmet, as dark as the fabric of his toga and looking as battered as the shield of a soldier after a lengthy battle.

And his eyes. They were unexpectedly pale, like the sky when all things were cold and brittle and hibernating.

Charles swallowed loudly, unnerved by the way this man was still staring at him with those strangely-colored eyes, and how he seemed not to notice the growing awkwardness simmering between them. He considered just departing from there, to his mother’s side where he could relate this strange encounter to her and perhaps get some pearls of wisdom (though she was more likely to berate him for talking to mortals and entertaining them for such an extended period of time), but that would have been rude and also, mortals didn’t just _vanish_ into thin air as a means of getting away.

  “Um…” Charles unthinkingly gnawed on his lower lip, and vocalized his hesitance. That snapped the man into action, and his features shifted into an expression that may or may not have been a smile. There was far too many teeth for that to be a friendly smile, and Charles was fast finding the idea of running away incredibly appealing.

  “I’m Erik,” the man offered his name like some olive branch, as if they were fighting.

Charles let himself relax; names held power, and if ‘Erik’ was really this man’s name, then they were on even footing since Charles had (foolishly, you’d think a hundred and one scoldings from his mother would cure him of the bad habit) given this man his own true name. He gave Erik a tentative smile, but he remained wary.

  “You are very beautiful,” Erik said suddenly, and Charles was startled into dropping the half-done flower crown in his hands. He could feel the blush heating up the back of his neck, his face to the tips of his ears.

  “Um, thank you,” Charles mumbled, ducking his head shyly and hoping to hide his scarlet countenance from view with the aid of his hair. He’d never met such unabashed honesty, or received such a frank compliment. Who was this man?

  “Are you… do you come here often?” Erik asked haltingly, as if he were unsure of his place. A faint look of embarassment mixed with worry flitted across his sharply sculpted face before it was schooled back into blankness once more. Charles found himself wishing this man wasn’t quite so…expressionless. Even the too-many-teeth smile was much better a look on him than such impassiveness.

  “Yes,” Charles wondered if he should even be talking to this man. His mother would be throwing a fit and threatening violence if she was here. “I… this is my hideaway.”

Erik’s brow furrowed slightly, and he opened his mouth to say something, probably to ask what Charles wanted to hide away _from_. But he was interrupted by a faint cacophony of howls, like a pack of wolves very far away, and his jaw snapped shut so tightly, Charles could see the muscle twitching in it.

  “May I come to see you again? Here?” Erik’s body was already turning to go, but his expression was wistful, hopeful.

Charles instinctively knew, by the tightness in the Erik’s shoulders and the rigidity of his posture that disappointment was not something he was unfamiliar with, but rather of close acquaintance. He didn’t have the heart to break another’s, and against the common sense that had been instilled in him by his mother and was railing against his foolish impulses, he said yes.

Erik smiled with too many teeth again, and this time Charles could see the bright joy lighting his face like a lamp in the darkness, and deep down he was glad he had not said no. Then Erik turned, took a step, and _disappeared_.

Oh, dear.

* * *

  “I beg your pardon?”

Erik set his jaw mulishly. “I want Charles, “Persephone”, as my betrothed and my spouse.”

Shaw, or “Zeus” as mortals liked to call him, spat a mouthful of nectar into the air unglamorously, and electricity crackled in the air with great incredulity. He wiped the dribbling trail of the liquid from his chin with the back of his forearm, and regarded Erik like he wasn’t sure if he was joking or not. Once he fully realized that Erik was indeed gravely serious, and not pulling his leg (that would be a first—Erik was not one with the patience for practical jokes, especially not when it came to the matter of spouses), Shaw leaned back and closed his eyes. He muttered something ominous under his breath and spoke without looking at Erik.

  “You do realize Charles is my son, yes?”

There was a weak attempt at fatherly overprotectiveness, but it didn’t impress Erik, much less frighten him.

  “No,” Erik admitted, but his voice turned wry. “How is Emma feeling about that, by the way?”

Emma, better known as Hera amongst the mortals, embodied the phrase “Hell hath no fury like a woman’s wrath” with great perfection. As the king of said Hell, Erik had full authority on that matter. Her jealousy over her husband’s… unsavory exploits with women, mortal and immortal alike, were the cause of many tragedies and deaths. A fair fraction of Hell’s population were there because of her.

Shaw gave him a dirty look, and Erik stifled a snigger.

  “Nevertheless,” Shaw waved away the matter of his wife’s indubitable anger over yet _another_ bastard child with an imperious hand. “Charles is my son, and I will not give him up without some persuasion.”

  “I won’t nag at you to stop killing people for a while,” Erik shrugged his shoulders innocently.

Again with the dirty look, and this time Erik didn’t bother restraining his snort of amusement.

  “I demand a portion of your tributes from the mortals every second decade,” Shaw sighed, making it sound like some great generosity on his part. “And no more nagging about how many of the puny little humans I smite every other hour.”

  “Every third decade,” Erik said firmly. “And I won’t nag for five.”

  “Whatever,” Shaw rolled his eyes. Clearly giving up his son to a life in the Underworld with his gloomy younger brother was not of much value. If Erik were not ecstatic that he was getting Charles, he would have been offended at the slight against his beloved.

Erik grinned, and as Shaw inwardly tried not to shudder at the sight of too many sharp teeth, he departed.

There was a beat of silence before Shaw acted, and this time it was to summon a young goddess whose fault this whole debacle was.

  “ _Raven!”_

There was a burst of red anemone petals to herald the arrival of the deity of love and beauty, whose appearance fluctuated indecisively for a moment between young, old, male, female, dark or pale. Eventually, she settled on the appearance of a a lovely young blonde woman about twenty-and-two years of age.

  “What is it?” Raven asked impatiently, fisting her hands on her hips. “I’m on a schedule.”

  “Certainly,” Shaw said mildly. “Which lover are you attending to now? Perhaps your actual spouse?”

  “Mind your own affairs, father,” Raven tossed her hair over her shoulder. “and I’ll mind mine. For what purpose did you summon me?”

  “Have you influenced Erik in any way?” Shaw asked, resigned. He was honestly unsettled and had mixed feelings about his brother having feelings for Charles, the offspring he never really quite bonded with and thus had no real attachment to. Honestly, if he’d known such a troublesome affair would arise out of his…well, affair with Sharon, he would have restrained himself somewhat.

  “Erik?” Raven frowned. “I haven’t spoken to him in nearly half a decade. Why?”

Shaw frowned. “So you had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that he’s now a besotted fool over Charles?”

Raven’s eyebrows, immaculate and as golden as her hair, shot straight up into her hairline. "I  _thought_ I felt a twitch in that direction. I assumed it was just some poor mortal that Charles unintentionally seduced. Again."

  "My brother Erik hardly passes for 'some poor mortal'," Shaw sneered. "Though often I wish he was just that much. Can you undo what has happened between them?"

  "If I didn't have a direct hand in it," Raven shrugged. "I can't do anything. The only thing I or anyone can do now is to watch the madness unfold. I assume Erik has come to you regarding the matter?"

  "He's asked me to give Charles to him as his spouse."

Raven's eyebrows did another disappearing act. "That was fast. Are you going to agree?"

Shaw groaned and wiped a hand over his face—this was turning out to be more bothersome that he’d originally imagined. He’d presumed that Raven had enchanted Erik into falling in love with Charles, out of selfish and whimsical amusement, and could force her to undo it. Then Erik wouldn’t have to pester him about making Charles his betrothed. But now it seemed that Erik had developed genuine feelings for Charles, purely out of his own will rather than fostered by Raven’s powers. And since Erik was a stubborn bastard who wouldn’t quit until he got what he wanted, Shaw would rather acquiscece to his (to be honest, not all that unreasonable) demands than find a ways around the whole damn thing.

As he took another sip of nectar, he idly wondered about Sharon's opinion on her son becoming the co-ruler of Hell, and decided it was nothing he wanted to find out any time soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, I know. But the best I can do given the circumstances (restricted to no access to the laptop, and test week, and all that it entails). Also, I'm trying really hard to follow the actual story (between Hades and Persephone) so far. I did say "slow burn". Also, I changed the tags, so...


	3. τρία: Who is He

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles' opinion on the matter, and Shaw is incredibly careless about important things.

Charles continued to worry his lower lip as his mother glared him down from her rather impressive material height of about πέντε and a half feet. Her anger was making up for her chosen diminuintive stature by leaps and bounds, and he was cowering like he was just a newborn caught outside of his nursery when he was supposed to be asleep. Surely an adolescent deity should have some form of right to freedom of actions—

His mother opened her mouth, and whatever rebellious thoughts he was developing promptly took a flying leap of Mount Olympus.  “How many times—“ _253, or maybe 254 if you counted the incident with the farmer’s daughter last harvesting season_ “—must I tell you not to talk to strangers? You could have been kidnapped! Or tied down! Or—“

The list of detrimental outcomes that Charles could have faced for even _looking_ at a mortal were endless, and Sharon reiterated every single one of them with agonizing detail as he took great interest in how his bony toes peeked out from his sandals. In all honesty, Charles was much more intrigued than anything else ( _id est_ , he wasn’t feeling all that guilty about talking to strangers who may or may not have been another god and could have ultimately endangered his existence). He knew most of the gods, mostly by default because they all passed through Olympus at some point and Charles spent his time there when he wasn’t in one of his idyllic retreats. Sometimes Olympus could be so _overwhelming_ , with the Muses always with their music and his father always with the noisy affairs and Emma with the jealous rages… so Charles thought his mother would be more inclined to understand just why he found it so much more comfortable to be in the meadow. The strange god “Erik” chancing upon him was really just another turn of bad luck in a series of turns of bad luck for Charles.

Yet as his mother belabored the ever-growing list of “Threats to the Negligent Immortal”, Charles’ mind wandered back to his bizarre encounter, replaying each moment that had transpired between them with the vivid clarity of one with eidetic memory. The more he went over it, the more he found himself appreciating the atypical handsomeness that the god displayed. Perhaps it was the gravitas and the frank sincerity? Charles certainly didn’t see such characteristics amongst the other gods with whom he’d been acquainted with. A majority of them were flighty and capricious, changing their moods as recklessly as they changed their lovers, often bringing heavy repercussions on their heels that they cared naught for. His own mother blessed and cursed mortals on a very capitalistic basis - the number sacrificial offerings sent her way (or lack thereof) was the determining factor. The other gods operated in such a manner, and though Charles had yet to establish his own influence and domain, it was fast becoming apparent that the same was expected of him. A few desperate mortals that had been spurned by his mother had sought his mercy, and despite his mother’s heavy (read: incredibly strong and thoroughly made known) disapproval, he’d granted it. A bit of fertility in the soil, some crops, nothing too much to warrant any more attention. The last thing Charles wanted was for a cult to begin in his name and for virgins to be sacrificed on the altar in exchange for a good harvest. Other minor gods _strived_ for such attention and glory, but Charles really just wanted to get by anonymously. Not to mention, he was rather squeamish about anything gory and found the killing of innocents as a means to barter for some bloody fruits to be cruel and callous.Erik had seemed…the adjective ‘kind’ seemed to slide right off him, and Charles preferred not to make any serious judgement of characters before he had a proper conversation with him. He was still holding out judgement on his own father, hoping against the painfully obvious reality that his half-formed opinion of ‘heartless’ and ‘sadistic’ would be proven wrong.

Questions of personality aside, Charles did think there was a raw kind of beauty to be found in Erik’s corporeal form, like uncut precious stones and the magnificent statues in the making— 

  “Charles! Are you listening to me?” Sharon snapped, and Charles flinched imperceptibly, startled rather than frightened. He shrugged a little, and may or may not have pouted the _tiniest_ bit. It couldn’t hurt his chances to pull the kicked-puppy look on his mother.  “

  Anyway,” Sharon huffed, ignoring his appeal to her delicate motherly heart entirely. “I want you to stay away from Erik, do you understand?” 

  “What?” Charles gaped, bewildered. “Why?”

  “Honestly, how did I raise such an oblivious child?” Sharon rolled her eyes (and Charles inwardly answered that she hadn’t—he was born fully formed and she’d been conspicuously absent most of the time, appearing only when he’d gotten himself neck-deep in trouble). “Erik is the god of Death and the underworld. He’s your uncle and the youngest of the oldest three gods.”

If his jaw wasn’t scraping the ground, he wasn’t displaying his shock well enough. _God of Death? Ruler of the notorious Underworld where there was only darkness and misery?_ He forced his mouth shut – Erik hadn’t had a choice in his domain or powers, since it had been his unwitting draw of the lot when the three oldest gods divided the world into their three major realms. But he’d been the god of Death for _centuries_ at least. That had to make someone a little… off, right?

  “He seemed nice,” Charles said weakly. He’d said Charles was beautiful, with great candor and not a hint of a lie.

Sharon frowned. “He’s the _god of the Dead,_ Charles. How nice can someone be when they dictate depression and death?”

Now it was Charles’ turn to scowl, because for goodness’ sake, the other gods weren’t much better. But of course, he bit his tongue to retain a shred of filial politeness. 

  “Alright, mother,” he said stiffly, trying to be conciliatory without sounding thoroughly annoyed. “Consider me warned.”

  “Good,” she either didn’t detect his empty platitudes, or chose to ignore it entirely. “Don’t go near him again, do you understand?”

Charles inwardly rolled his eyes, and had barely nodded before she took off, probably to partake in some ceremony in her honor or to bestow affliction on some poor mortals. In her wake, she left the scent of ripe wheat and barley, and as much as he loathed these ‘dressing-downs’, there was no denying the ripple of vaguely maternal comfort it provided.

Because Charles was lonely. There wasn’t very much companionship to be found amongst the other gods when they were all busy brewing strife and upheaval in the mortal world, or flirting, or just doing whatever it was that they did. Since his mother had barred him from interacting with mortals, his dismal outlook on the ‘friends’ front was growing ever more pathetic. Of course, there was Hank, whom the mortals liked to call ‘Hephaestus’, but he was always busy making something in the forge and Charles didn’t like the extreme heat that much.

Speaking of which.

  “Raven?” Charles sent out a weak summon, more of a request rather than an actual command for her presence.She appeared in a haze of some sweet, flowery scent, and her form vacillated between a redheaded and blonde woman indecisively.

  “Yes, Charles?”

  “I don’t suppose you'd happen to know anything about—“

  “Let me guess,” Raven sighed. “Erik?”

Charles blinked in surprise. “How did you know?”

Raven took a breath to decide if it would be smart to dispense the fact that Erik had actually  _demanded_ Charles’ hand in marriage from Shaw just a few mortal hours ago, and ultimately came to the conclusion that it wouldn’t be beneficial to her in any way. “Lucky guess.”

Charles gave her a dubious look.

  “Erik’s the god of the dead, big boss of the underworld,” Raven shrugged, speaking before Charles could voice his doubts about her knowledge. “What else is there to know?” 

  “I mean,” Charles shrugged a little helplessly, and Raven felt her heart soften just the tiniest bit. After all, she _was_ the goddess of love. It was in her nature to foster this budding romance between them. “What’s he like? Does he chew with his mouth open? Demand tributes while threatening death or something?”

Raven arched an eyebrow, knowing exactly which kind of people he was using as a reference. Dinners on Olympus with the gods was not all it was made out to be. Certainly a lot less glamorous than mortals liked to think, what with Angel flitting about madly on those stupid wings of hers and upending plates, and Sean singing 107-stanza songs and shooting his stupid arrows around, and his father drunk and throwing lightning bolts everywhere. It was hectic, chaotic and obstreperous, and Charles always wound up with a terrible headache by the end of each dinner.

  “He’s…different,” Raven knew Erik was _definitely_ attracted to Charles, because on her radar he might as well have been carrying a million blazing torches. But Charles’ feelings were much more muted and hesitant. She didn’t want to break anything that wasn’t even solid enough to be broken. “Definitely not like the other gods on Olympus.”

Charles seemed relieved. “Is he nice?”

Raven laughed. How very like Charles to choose diplomatic, restrained choices of words. “You’ll have to be a bit more specific when you say ‘nice’, Charles. You think cow dung is nice.”

  “It’s fertilizer,” Charles scowled. “It helps plants to grow. Of course it’s—“

  “I haven’t had any chance to get up close and personal with the god of Death,” Raven smoothly interjected before Charles could launch into yet another tirade about the benefits of cow poop. Honestly. “But from what I _do_ know about him, he’s rather boring.”

  “Raven, your definition of boring is someone who won’t have sex with you,” Charles threw his hands up exasperatedly.

  “Just for the record, I think you’re boring, too.” 

* * *

 

Shaw considered his youngest brother as he stood before him pensively, looking starkly out of place in the great halls of Olympus in his dreary and dismal get up of black, black and whatever else that was darker than black. Some miniscule, unimportant part of his mind that made up the entirety of his paternal instinct fretted over the fate Charles would have to endure if he married such a depressing god. 

  “So?” Erik demanded. “Where is Charles?”

Shaw rolled his eyes. “I didn’t call you here to get the two of you married _straight away_ , you know.”

  “Then you’re wasting my time,” Erik snarled. “I have six thousand, three hundred and forty-one souls backed up on my schedule for judging, thanks to—“

  “Patience, brother,” Shaw said patronisingly, and inwardly smirked when Erik only grew angrier. “I’m afraid there’s been a little…snag in our plans.”

Erik went very still. Did Charles not want to marry him? Of course he didn’t, he was beautiful and bright and lovely, he had no affections to spare for someone like Erik— 

  “Sharon.”

_Who?_

  “Charles’ mother,” Shaw supplied. “Strangely maternal and protective, for a goddess. She’s the deity of harvests, and Charles is her only offspring.”

Ah. “But what about Charles’ stand on the matter?”

Shaw knew better than to tell his brother that he had, in fact, _not_ asked Charles for his opinion on the idea of getting married to the god of death. Wouldn’t do anyone’s ego any good, and a happy Erik was much less annoying than an angry Erik. “He’s…amenable, I suppose?”

Erik’s countenance softened fractionally, and Shaw silently congratulated himself on his forethought.

  “So what then?” Erik asked beseechingly.

  “You could always whisk him away,” Shaw said carelessly, partaking in some ambrosia. “Sweep him off his feet, you know. Mortals find that romantic.”

He was half-joking, and didn’t see Erik’s thoughtful expression. If he had, he might have retracted that statement.   


	4. τέσσερα: Welcome to Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik takes Shaw's joke a little too seriously. Charles isn't sure if he's amused or not, and Sharon most certainly isn't.

There was a strange sort of comfort to be found in the company of wild animals, like a mutual respect borne of instinct and insight. It was, to Charles’ mind, both precious and rare. There was little dignity (much less respect) afforded to him on Olympus, and unlike the other gods, the animals were willing to tolerate Charles’ presence for as long as he made no sudden moves and continued to subconciously emanate the scent of immortality and nothing human.

The stag, crowned by an impressive pair of solid antlers that offered its branches of bone up towards the sky as though in supplication, had given a shallow bow of his head when Charles wandered into the midst of the herd, accepting his presence like a fish would accept a new tributary into the ocean. A few does brushed their noses against Charles, as if to check the possibility of a threat to their awkward and leggy young. The fawns, in contrast to their sire’s near-indifferent understanding and their dams’ wariness, were enthusiastically curious about the funny two-legged but sweet-smelling creature that was Charles. They nipped at his hair, his ears, his toga, and one even dared to lick Charles’ shoulder before darting away.

Amused, Charles prompted the growth of a veritable garden of wildflowers in the small clearing where the herd was grazing, startling them into a chomping frenzy. The riot of vibrantly colored hyacinths, crocuses, violets, irises and narcissus were fodder for the deer and material for Charles to craft into wreaths and garlands. The repetitive fingerwork gave Charles’ mind some relief, occupying his hands and allowing his consciousness to wander toward unimportant matters like which colored flower should come after which, as opposed to thinking about a certain enigmatic god by name of Erik. The kind late afternoon sunlight cast a soft glow in the clearing, and surrounded by the rhythmic noises of soft deer grunts and the distant bird songs, it made for the most lovely and calming ambience Charles had ever been treated to in what felt like forever.

And then the earth was slipping away beneath his feet, and the sweet calm that had been so hard to find and harder to keep was slipping away with it, overwhelming him its oblivion. He hadn’t even had the chance to register the deer skittering away from the ground on which he sat in inherently prescient fear, or let out even a gasp in sheer fright.

He tumbled to the ground in a rather clumsy heap, his knees and elbows stinging from where they’d scraped against the hard rock in an unintentional attempt to break his fall. His toga was in a dreadful state, ripped and dirtied by the earth and stone—

  “Hello, Charles.”

Charles, stunned breathless, looked up at the imposing figure of one god of Death and could scarcely comprehend the _what_ , much less the _why_.

Erik opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it, then opened it again. The action struck Charles to be of remarkable likeness to a fish out of water ( _that should be_ my _expression,_ was Charles faint but unmistakably cross thought), and he unthinkingly giggled because the expression was wholly incongruous. But Charles’ slip of mirth gave Erik the encouragement to continue, and hopefully provide some sort of valid explanation for the circumstances.

The only light shed on his present whereabouts was from cast iron torches on the walls of what appeared to be a stone cavern, illuminating the Underworld with an unnaturally eerie, flickering dull orange that only made the darkness more palpable. What sounded like the rustling of leaves and silken fabrics turned out to be the whispered musings of the spirits of the dead, who receded back into the shadows once they realized that Charles was no more mortal than Erik. Beyond the rocky outcrop under which Charles had made his rough landing, he could see the rivers of Hell winding through the unforgiving terrain. And even further beyond that, was a gleaming and breathtakingly intricate black fortress that looked as if it had been carved right out of the rock.

  “Welcome to—“ Erik verbally stumbled, but quickly recovered. “Welcome to my residence.”

 _That’s a lovely way of saying ‘Hell’_ , Charles bit his tongue before he could give voice to the scathing words. He was ordinarily incapable of such acerbity, but he felt that the circumstances justified it.

  “I…are you alright?” Erik asked after an awkward pause, in which Charles did not grace him with a reply.

Charles couldn’t quite suppress the spitfire in him, and this time his mind didn’t react fast enough to sit on his mouth before it exclaimed incredulously: “ _You must be joking.”_

Erik flinched imperceptibly, and with all the smoothness of a manipulated corpse, he offered his hand. Charles took it without processing, as it seemed his mind was not fully functional. He was hauled to his feet brusquely but not unkindly, as if Erik were not quite sure of his own strength or of how to be gentle.

 _No_ , Charles supposed not, his silly and gentle heart already softening at the recollection that Erik was the god of death, condemned to be the ruler of what was possibly the least cultivatable place for niceness. He could hardly blame the man for being… mildly sociopathic.

  “I’m sorry,” Erik blurted out, his chiselled and usually unreadable features tilted towards a semblance of self-consciousness. “I was… I’ve been told that such gestures… are romantically endearing.”

Charles arched an eyebrow in a way that would have done Raven proud. “Excuse me?”

  “I’m in love with you,” was the best and only explanation Charles received for his current predicament.

  “Oh,” was all Charles could say, stupefied and still not quite capable of grasping exactly what Erik had said.

Erik had perhaps expected a more dramatic reaction to his declaration of affections, because Charles’ reply made him visibly wilt. He ran a hand through his hair, disheveling the neat but forbidding style into a much more open and casual one while his face screwed up in an expression of unmistakable frustration.

Charles bit his lip, and without really processing the possible risks of what he was about to do, gently took both of Erik’s hands in his. They were large, calloused and surprisingly warm. There were tiny scars criss-crossing the palms and the backs of his hands, and little nicks on his fingers; they were the polar opposite of Charles’, whose soft and pale hands had never seen more work than weaving flower garlands. If Erik chose, he could envelope Charles’ hands completely with his own.

  “Erik,” Charles treaded carefully, the profundity of the unresolved tension between them resting heavily on his shoulders. “I… appreciate your feelings for me. But I don’t think kidnapping me to He—your home is really the most… practical way of courting me.”

Erik looked crestfallen, as though Charles had just kicked his favorite puppy _twice_.

  “Perhaps,” Charles quickly continued. “it would be more appropriate and more…holistic if we got to know each other first.”

Erik mulled this over contemplatively, lax hands taking a slightly firmer hold on Charles’. It was an unexpectedly delightful thing to witness, watching Erik’s mind work over the implications of Charles’ suggestion.

  “I am Erik,” Erik said suddenly, startling Charles. “I am the god of death, and ruler of the Underworld. I judge the dead, provide precious gems and rare metals for the mortals on the surface, govern the netherworld and I have three-headed dog named Cerberus.”

Charles stared at him blankly.

  “And I love you,” Erik added, looking ridiculously hopeful now. If he had a tail, Charles was undeniably certain he would be wagging it with great gusto.

 _Good grief_ , Charles thought weakly. _What am I to do with him?_

* * *

 

Charles was shown into a spacious and well-decorated (albeit accented by the sombre colors of black sheets, black walls, black tiles, and a very dark grey door) room by Erik, who looked  nervous and tried to be more hospitable, but only succeeded in sounding like an emotionally-stilted antisocial.

The bed was as soft as the one he’d made his on Olympus, and the room smelled like a rather fragrant and expensive incense, the kind used by very rich mortals for the funerals of their loved ones. Erik stood in the doorway, fingers clenching and unclenching, doing the fish out of water impression again.

  “This is lovely, Erik,” Charles said sincerely. “Thank you.”

When he’d asked to go back to the surface, Erik’s face had gone positively mulish (if he hadn’t been so disoriented or desperate to go home, Charles might have laughed). He then wordlessly steered the younger god in the direction of the fortress, closing the distance in just a single stride. The fortress looked much bigger up close, towering impressively over their heads, and the inside was even more majestic than the outside.

The floor was so smooth and polished that it mirrored the arched, high ceilings overhead. It was all made of black marble, lit by roaring flames esconced in braziers at every ten feet. Charles had to pause a few times to admire the intricate carving work that had gone into the hallways, with Erik waiting patiently for him to finish exclaiming and marvelling over a strikingly realistic sculpture of a man writhing in torture or a gleaming bronze chariot, all thoughts of the madness of the situation fleeing Charles’ mind in the face of such rare and untouched wonders. After all, how often was it that anyone could have the opportunity of guided tour around Hell by none other than its master?

  “I… if there’s anything you need to make your stay more comfortable,” Erik said hastily as Charles explored his allocated room. “Just ask.”

As if to punctuate his sentence, a loud and ominous-sounding noise echoed in the hallway behind him. Erik’s body gave a jerk in response, and with one last longing look aimed at Charles, he swept away.

Charles stared after him, perplexed and lost. What was he going to do now? Stare out the window at the endless horizon of the wretched and despairing?

 _Certainly not_ , Charles thought primly as he climbed off the bed and peeked out into the empty hallway. There were muted conversations going on, indecipherable and far-off sounding, so Charles slipped out and headed in the direction in which Erik had gone.

* * *

   “What do you mean he’s _gone_?” Sharon screamed, form blazing with the light of an incandescently enraged goddess.

Shaw knew better than to divulge the fact that he’d been the one to suggest ‘whisking’ Charles away so as to ‘sweep him off his feet’. He was a miserable bastard already; he didn’t need Sharon screaming down the ear Emma wasn’t needling with her jealous rages.

  “Erik has him,” that was short, simple, straightforward and most importantly, it absolved Shaw of any involvement (thereby blame) in the matter whatsoever.

Sharon hissed, turning on her heel and muttering vicious threats under her breath. She didn’t see Shaw heaving a minute sigh of relief, and neither cared for the cries of the innocent mortals far below who watched in horror as their fields of near harvest-ready crops fell prey to the pestilence that Sharon brought in her wake of wrath.

 

 


	5. πέντε: Death is Absolute

The more Charles explored, the more he began to find that Erik’s home was less like a fortress and rather like a palace. A muted, subtle and still palace, with only the hushed reflections of the dead and the crackling of fires chasing the silence away. There were no showy nymphs flaunting their evergreen beauty, no ostentatious ballads threatening his ability to hear, no perpetual crackling of thunder that sometimes made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. It was all very quiet, and reluctantly Charles ventured to admit that it was actually very calming, once his subconscious fooled him into thinking that the murmurs of the deceased was very similar to the sighs of the wind on a lazy, overcast afternoon.

He trailed a hand along the width of a pitch back column, wondering what kind of craftsmanship had gone into it, and if Erik had done the work himself. He seemed rather like the type, Charles thought wryly, to take things into his own hands and accomplish his own feats without delegating the burden. He couldn’t say the same for his esteemed relatives above ground, always cracking the proverbial whip and devolving themselves from the ‘menial’ and ‘tedious’ tasks that was their _duty_. They found detached, sick amusement in the sufferings of mortals, even though they derived their power from their worship and offerings.

Erik didn’t seem like that.

Charles hesitated, looking down at his bare feet, which were tracking dirt across the polished floors. What did he know about Erik? Other than his forceful honesty and one-track mind? Nothing at all. But he was nice.

 _Yes_ , Charles thought both wistfully and resolutely. _He was nice. Which, though vague and not very reassuring in terms of specifics, is still a compliment and one I cannot apply to the rest of my extended family._

Then Charles scolded himself for being so harsh on his own relatives, struggling futilely to call to mind at least _one_ instance in which they had been kind without ill intent while his feet carried him towards a much larger and much more populated hall.

He pulled up short on the threshold, surprised to find himself in observance of what was indubitably the _longest_ queue he’d ever seen. He’d witnessed the mad dash for temples whenever the gods wrought havoc on the mortals with flash floods, lightning storms, plagues and whatever disaster the gods found levity in. He’d watched, heart aching with sympathetic sorrow, as they prostrated themselves before the sculptures of the gods, who paid them no heed.

But those were nothing in comparison to _this._

The line snaked out beyond the open double doors of the room, and every single one of them was a translucent, faded shadow of a mortal: the spirits of the dead made only half-corporeal, not real enough to be seen by a living soul but enough to still feel pain. A gigantic three-headed beast (Charles faintly thought that the vague anatomy, aside from the multiple heads stemming from the same neck, to be not all that different from a dog) was standing guard by the door, snarling whenever the spirits got restless or tried to riot.

At the head of the queue was none other than Erik, looking more regal and powerful than ever on his throne of Stygian iron, wearing a helmet that Charles could not help giggling at. But now that he had the pieces to the puzzle, it was easy to connect the dots and recognize the Helm of Darkness, Erik’s symbol of power. Shaw and Janos had their own, the Cudgel of the Skies and the Trident of the Seven Seas respectively.

Erik, despite being halfway across the room, heard him and Charles watched in amusement as a look of surprise flitted across Erik’s normally Sphinx-like features. He was doing the fish impression once more, and Charles outright laughed like he hadn’t laughed in _decades_. Great, gusty, heaving mirth, prompting tears to his eyes and making his cheeks hurt with the wideness of his smile. And then Erik was doing something different, something new: he was smiling sheepishly, not quite like the wide shark-like grin. It was endearing somehow, and Charles found himself smiling back.

Erik beckoned him over, and finding no real reason to reject him, Charles walked towards his throne and a chair almost on par with it was levitated beside Erik. Taking the unsaid cue, Charles sat, and Erik glanced at him with an expression that might be called ‘fond’. 

A throat was cleared, and the emotion was covered once more with a mask of unreadability, and Charles was sorry to see it go. Erik turned back to the queue awaiting his judgement, countenance as solemn as the grave of his audience-seekers. Charles turned as well, curious to see Erik in action, and froze.

A child, no older than five years of age, with ripped burlap sack draped draped over his stick-and-bones body, looked up at Erik. His face was haggard and his hair matted, and he looked utterly lost and confused. In one hand, he clutched desperately at the decaying remains of what appeared to be a toy crafted out of straw and string.

Charles couldn’t breathe.

  “What is your name?” Erik asked, voice empty of any inflections or of any feelings whatsoever. Charles whirled on him, incredulous.

  “Myron,” the child whispered, his voice as quiet and as broken as he looked. “Is my mother here?”

Erik said nothing, and Charles seized his forearm, not entirely sure what he was begging for. “ _Erik_.”

Erik didn’t look at him, but continued to regard the child. “What is the last thing you remember?”

  “I want my mother,” the child began to cry, hugging the straw doll to his matchstick chest. “I want my mother.”

  “What is the last thing you remember?” Erik repeated.

Charles was aghast. _How could Erik not feel sorry for the child? Was he worse than the gods on Olympus? Did he feel nothing?_

  “ _μητέρα_ ,” the child sobbed, shoulders trembling.Charles made to move forward, to take the child into his arms and soothe him, but Erik grabbed his wrist with a hold like the iron that made his throne, and quelled him with a warning look.Eventually, the child’s tears waned, and he finally told Erik in a shaking, gasping voice, that his mother went to sleep after falling sick, and she never woke up again no matter how many times he tried to wake her up. The people in his village were sick, too, so no one could take care of him, an orphan among many. Then he got sick as well, and with no one to care for him or ease his passing, he’d died alone and cold and starving.

Charles was crying, and Erik’s grip on his wrist had not eased, nor had his expression changed a whit since the child began to tell Erik of his last memories alive. Erik said something that Charles didn’t hear, too busy aching with the need to take the child in his arms and ease his distress. Then Erik got up, and dragged Charles away to a room behind the throne.

  “How could you do that?” Charles half-screamed at Erik, choking with disbelief and outrage. “How could you just—just sit there and—“

  “And what, Charles?” Erik said icily. “Shed tears for his misfortune? Make his mother appear out of thin air so she could comfort him? Resurrect him?”

  “How could you not feel sorry for him?” Charles seized Erik by his toga, pulling him closer and practically growling. “How could you be so—“

  “Indifferent and emotionless?” Erik snarled, ripping off his Helm of Darkness and discarding it to take hold of Charles’ wrists with that vice-like grip of his. “Tell me, Charles. Do you know how many souls I have to pass judgement on every day? Do you know how many of them are just like Myron? How many of them cry and ask for their parents and wish they weren’t here?”

Charles looked up at him helplessly, unable to answer.

  “If I cut out a piece of my heart for every single unfortunate, injusticed soul who passed through my presence by feeling _sorry_ for them,” Erik’s voice had dropped to a broken whisper, and Charles couldn’t breathe because in Erik’s eyes was a _universe_ of pain and desolation. “I would be no better than Shaw or Janos or the other gods. I wouldn’t be able to look at you, and say from the bottom of my _heart_ , that I _love_ you.”

He eased back, and his hands went to cup Charles’ face with a gentleness that was so raw it chafed at Charles’ own heart. “And there would be nothing left of me for you to even ever _think_ of loving.”

Erik released Charles, stepping back to pick up his Helm of Darkness, and turned on his heel to leave without ever glancing back. 

Charles stayed in that room behind the throne for a long time, falling to his knees and crying. He didn’t know why he was crying, or who he felt sorry for.

Myron? Because he had died in afraid and alone, with no one left to love him or care for him?

For the souls like Myron, who had left the mortal world in such painful and tragic circumstances?

Or for Erik, who had been forced to learn to stunt his own emotions before he felt too much, and lost even more? What Erik had done to his own feelings was not unlike the practice Charles had once seen in a distant Eastern land, where the girls of noble families were forced to bind their feet out of traditional eligibility for marriage. It was an agonizing, horrific process borne of necessity, and Charles drew striking similarities between Erik’s emotional capacity and that.

Now he knew why Erik was so blunt, and so straightforward with what he was feeling and thinking. Why he was shunned as an outcast from Olympus for being depressing and gloomy.God of death, feared by mortals and insulted by the gods, just carrying out his duties as best he knew how. It was much more than Charles could say for the other gods, who abandoned their duties for carnal pleasures and morbid recreational activities.

He didn’t know how long he’d remained in the room, crying until his eyes were swollen and the ache in his chest barely easing to a dull, thick throb. But when he exited, the throne was empty, and so was the hall. The gigantic three-headed dog, however, was still there, resting its triplet heads on its forepaws and dozing fitfully.

He approached it, not quite knowing what to expect (but the benefits of being an immortal meant he had very little reason to fear a mauling), and rest a hand on one wet nose. The dog reared its heads up, growling and snapping, eyeing Charles like they wouldn’t mind eating him. Charles watched as the realization that he was an immortal like their master sank in, and the massive beast lowered its head in submission, whining softly.

  “You are funny,” Charles murmured, voice hitching as the remnant hiccups of his crying jag wracked his chest. “Like your master, I suppose.”

A flat, wide and very wet tongue snuck out from between impressively large and sharp teeth to lick one long, soggy swathe up Charles’ entire body, and he laughed. The three heads took that as encouragement to bestow soaking salivary affection on him, and he chuckled as he fended off their endeavors to be lovable. This was the first living beast he’d encountered in Hell, and possibly the only. Was this Erik’s guard dog? Or his beloved pet? Or perhaps (and Charles quailed at the thought) his only friend?

  “His name is Cerberus.”Charles spun around, surprised. Erik stood in the doorway through which Charles had first come through to this place, and his countenance had not changed since Charles had last seen him. A blank mask, devoid of emtion, unreadable and unflinching.

  “Cerberus, is it?” Charles said lightly, recovering his ability to speak. He couldn’t help hiccuping again, and Erik’s features twisted in an expression Charles couldn’t quite decipher.

  “I…” Erik swallowed thickly, and shuffled his feet like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to come close to Charles. Really, after everything he’d done? “I didn’t mean to make you sad.”

Charles had cried so hard, his eyes must look as red and swollen as it felt. Erik really was the master of understatements, or maybe his vocabulary wasn’t as far-ranging as Charles liked to think his own was.

  “It’s alright,” Charles said offhandedly, turning his gaze back to Cerberus and his eagerness to receive affection. Perhaps the two weren’t so different. “I’m okay.”

He didn’t have to turn around to know that Erik was doing the fish impression, and he smiled a secret little smile that only Cerberus saw. 

  “I’m sorry.”

That was the last thing Charles’ expected to hear. He turned around, and Erik wasn’t looking at him, but rather at his feet. The god of death looked like a small boy caught with his hand in the sweets jar, and was apologizing like one, with the baseless and empty hope that it might ease the punishment.

  “Oh, Erik,” Charles closed the distance between them and couldn’t help framing Erik’s face with his hands, much like Erik had done to him not that long ago when the truth had been revealed to him in that room behind the throne. “I’m not upset with you. I’m upset _for_ you.”

  “Why?” Erik, bless him, looked truly bewildered, like he believed there was no reason for Charles to be upset on his behalf.

Charles just smiled, and didn’t say why. Telling Erik would not change anything, nor would it help in any way. Relationships, platonic and romantic, should never be built on the foundations of pity or sympathy. So instead, Charles just hugged Erik, wrapping his arms around the other’s tall and solid body.The god of death was startled, and once again Charles’ heart hurt with the understanding that Erik had probably never been hugged in his life. Affections must not come often to his arms.

Well, Charles would teach him.

  “Is…is it okay if I show you something?” Erik mumbled, nearly tripping over each word in his haste to release them from his mouth.

  “Alright,” Charles squeezed his hand, and allowed himself to be led away.

* * *

 

   “This is outrageous!” Shaw yelled. “You cannot just annihilate so many mortals without reducing our offerings and sacrificial gifts! You will wreak havoc on the balance of power!”

  “Then give me back my son!” Sharon yelled back, not caring that Shaw was releasing enough lightning to fry a cow or maybe a hundred.

  “I cannot!” Shaw gritted his teeth. “Erik has him, and none may enter the realm of the Underworld without Erik’s permission or by death! We can do nothing but let Fate run its course and hope that Charles might persuade Erik to let him go!”

  “I don’t care about the whims of a _μπάσταρδος!”_ Sharon screamed. “Until you give me back my son, I will destroy your worshippers and their offerings! I will smite the earth until my son is back in my arms!”

  “Fine words for a mother who only shows up when he’s in trouble so she can lecture him,” Emma said airily, leaning one hip against Shaw’s throne as she inspected her nails, oblivious to the violent energy in the air.

  “ _σκάσε!”_ Sharon hissed. “You haven no right to speak. None! You threw your own son off the mountain simply because you were displeased with his appearance! Then you trapped him in a marriage with a _πουτάνα—“_

  “Choose your next words carefully, Sharon,” Emma’s voice was deathly quiet. “Because they may be your last uttered on Mount Olympus.”

  “Give me back my son,” Sharon repeated coldly. “Or I will give you a reason to.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM USING GOOGLE TRANSLATE AND SWEAR WEBSITES FOR THE GREEK! I AM SORRY IF I AM DESECRATING THE LANGUAGE!


	6. έξι: The Courtship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik courts Charles as best he knows how.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very short filler chapter, I'm afraid. I was eager to get this out so we could move on to the actual plot part. Charles falling in love with Erik, as you all know, was a definite thing.

The Underworld was the realm of the dead, which consequently brought forth the natural perception that nothing living could reside in it. This also meant no flora or fauna, and Charles was made aware of the fact that Cerberus was not a normal living creature but rather a shade that Erik had brought forth from the darkness of the Underworld. He was no more living than the mortals he prevented from entering Hell, for life could not be fostered in the Underworld without submitting to the essence of the dead over time.

So when Erik led Charles into a garden of vibrant colors and shades, he was understandably shocked.

  “Erik…how is this possible?” Charles gaped at the sight that lay before him. Iridescent blooms and brilliant greenery seemed to thrive in the land of the dead. Riots of color in the form of hyacinths, roses, narcissus and poppies made a striking contrast with the bleak and shadowy darkness of the Underworld. It defied logic, and nature.

 “They’re not real flowers or plants,” Erik said quietly, and closer inspection revealed it to be true. “They’re gems.”

Charles marvelled over the intricate workmanship that had gone into creating a rather realistic (if shiny) spray of lilacs, absently recalling that Erik, as ruler of the Underworld and basically anything below the surface, had natural power over the stones and what they were made into.

  “Do you like it?” Erik asked uncertainly, as though Charles’ exuberant appreciation of his gift was not clarification enough of his delight. “I made it for you.”

  “It’s beautiful, Erik,” Charles stroked the richly-coloured and stiff petal of a stargazer lily, evading the question. It was indeed beautiful, unlike anything Charles had ever seen, and the most thoughtful and precious gift he’d ever received. But the sight brought forth a wistfulness for the real thing, on the surface, where life was tangible and warm.

  “I thought it would make you happy,” Erik sounded embarrassed, and Charles gave him a gentle smile.

  “It is the most lovely thing anyone has ever given me,” Charles said honestly. “And I thank you for it, my friend.”

Erik’s expression went from bashfully hopeful to disappointed, and Charles realized his error. Erik was trying to _court_ him, giving him gifts, and Charles had called him a ‘friend’. This was not the effect Erik had been hoping for.

  “Be patient with me, Erik,” Charles reached for Erik’s hand and lifted his chin with the other so that Erik’s gaze was on his. “Love does not come as easily to others as it does to you.”

  “I’ve never known what love was until I met you,” Erik said frankly, and Charles had to suppress a chuckle. Here Erik wasn’t even trying, and he’d just unintentionally delivered the most romantic line that maiden mortals always dreamed of receiving. He felt a warmth grow in his chest at the knowledge of the fact that _he_ was Erik’s first love. The unfounded desire to be the _only_ one Erik ever treated in this way stemmed from that same warmth.

Charles must have been silent for too long, because then Erik was whispering, frantic and desperate: “Do you love me, Charles? Could you learn to?”

  “Oh, Erik,” Charles rest his head against Erik’s shoulder, knowing such close contact was only going to encourage Erik’s advances and surprising himself with the realization that said advances would not be…entirely unwelcome. There was a kind of joy to be found in being loved by the one person who could not love anyone else. Fidelity was a rare, near nonexistent trait amongst the gods (notable exceptions being Emma because of her inherent nature), and Charles himself was the product of adultery.

  “Charles, _please_ ,” Erik closed his eyes, and Charles could feel his body drawing taut with preparation for a rejection, for a denial. For disappointment.

And in that moment, the truth had never brought Charles more relief to give it.

  “Yes, Erik,” Charles closed his eyes as well, letting himself feel the solid warmth and offer of a happiness that he could never have been able to receive from anyone else. “I do think I could.”

* * *

And so began the process of their courtship, which spanned how long, Charles wasn’t entirely certain. He spent the hours of Erik’s judgement sessions (once had been quite enough, thank you) in the gardens Erik had given him, exclaiming in wonder over the likeness that must have taken intense concentration to replicate. It only reminded him of just how passionately Erik must love him, and served to warm his heart more towards the endearingly awkward and blunt god. The gardens were beautiful and breathtaking, unlike anything on the surface, but somehow Charles could not help but think wistfully of the velvety softness and smoothness of a real flower, of petrichor and scent of freshly-turned earth. Charles was, despite Erik’s insistence that he was a beloved guest of honor, a prisoner in the Underworld for all his lack of freedom and power to exert, for Charles’ power was over the life that lived in the Earth, not the dead that lived beneath it.

When Erik wasn’t judging the souls of the demised, they spent their time learning to appreciate and enjoy each other’s company. What began as awkward conversation evolved into heated chess matches accompanied by maybe one too many cups of nectar, punctuated with wry laughter and stunned admiration for each other’s intellect and strategy skills. Charles had not had such lovely company since he first came into existence, and it was refreshing to find it in the one all thought was incapable of giving it.

Erik gave Charles more gifts: a veritable library of books from the surface encompassing knowledge from nearly all over the globe where there was life to transcribe it, finely cut jewels delicately inlaid in even finer metalwork, and a rare and expensive music box that played the most heartwrenching lullaby Charles had ever heard.

They exchanged chaste kisses, light embraces, and dozed together on the chaise longue in the parlor, growing comfortable in each other’s presence and even more so with close contact. Erik seemed to adore these moment, eyes lighting up with a depthless delight when Charles initiated these small acts of intimacies, and there was very little doubt in Charles’ mind that these moments were kept away and treasured in Erik’s consciousness.

Erik made sure to tell Charles at least once every hour that he loved him, hesitantly kissing Charles’ cheek like some innocent pre-adolescent child still uncertain of romance, and blushing whenever Charles graced his declarations of love with a kiss on the lips.

Erik was trying, anyone could see that. Charles most of all. And it was an effort that didn’t go unrewarded.

Because not long after Erik beat Charles’ winning streak in chess, he found himself lying by Erik on his bed, their heads turned towards each other with their breaths still in their throats, thoughts suspended in the serenity of the moment as Charles’ music box played what Erik began to term ‘their song’. The flickering torchlight cast a gentle glow about the room. Erik’s eyes were staring into his with the same emotions that was always there whenever he looked at Charles: profound love, admiration, yearning, and hope. That same hope made Charles brave, gave him the courage and the strength to admit the truth Erik had inspired in him.

  “I love you,” Charles whispered, and Erik, feared and formidable god of the dead and notoriously dangeorus king of the Underworld, defeater of Titans and one of the three oldest gods, cried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm incredibly sorry if this was too rushed, but I wanted to get over this part really quick. I promise this is not the end of the falling-in-love fluff, but plot demands writing.


	7. επτά: The Consummation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles and Erik are married, and the gods are fed up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm afraid I have very little skill at writing sex scenes (they don't exactly teach you how to write porn in school) and so I'm very sorry if it falls short of expectations.

Charles wasn’t sure if gods could spontaneously combust, but at the moment, he was fairly sure he might just do that. His cheeks and neck was burning, and he didn’t need a mirror to know that even the tips of his ears had gone a bright and unflattering shade of pink.

But Erik was looking at him like he’d never laid eyes on anything more magnificent, and that gave him the courage to undo the last knot on his toga and let the fabric slide off his body, exposing every bare inch of him to the awestruck gaze of one already-naked god of death.

  “Charles…” Erik seemed at a loss for words, and Charles couldn’t help smiling. “Are you sure?”

Charles inhaled deeply, summoning the last vestiges of his courage to step towards Erik where he sat on foot of what was to become their marriage bed, and finding his voice sure and steady as he spoke: “Very.”

Erik was less certain, and the tremor in his hands as he slowly settled them on the curve of Charles’ hips said as much. He touched him like he was made of spun glass, fragile and ephemeral as the wind be. “If this is an illusion or some elaborate trick, then I would gladly accept being laughed at if only it would last.”

Charles chuckled. “Always so dramatic.”

Erik closed his eyes and rest his head against Charles’ flat, smooth belly. “I love you.”

  “And I love you,” Charles murmured, carding his fingers through Erik’s hair and feeling a spark light a warmth low in his gut. “Rather desperately, I dare say.”

Erik lifted his chin such that he was looking up into Charles’ gaze, and he cupped one hand around the back of his neck to pull him down into a kiss. Not their first, but if either of them had their way, never their last. Their bodies moved in tandem, with Erik easing back on the bed and Charles falling forward into his arms, until they were tucked neatly against each other, as though carved from the same stone, crevice slotted against crevice.

  “Perhaps,” Charles looked up at Erik, eyes half-lidded with an aching need to be close. “you should make me yours sometime during the next century before we—“

Erik flipped Charles onto his back without warning, and began to kiss him with a fervor that had been hidden under iron chains of restraint and barely-there patience. His lips tasted like nectar and felt like the flames of an open hearth that had been burning too long without a body to warm. Hands canvassed the sides of Charles’ body, stroking and massaging, diffusing the muted awkwardness that accompanied every first time when there wasn’t a heady mix of alcohol and hormones involved.

It was sweet, passionate and Charles could sincerely say he wouldn’t have had his maidenhead taken any other way.

Erik’s tongue licked at Charles’ lower lip tentatively, the first time they’d ever attempted anything beyond an ardent but strictly chaste contact of lips, then slid past the small gap between his teeth to shyly flirt with Charles’ tongue. The novel sensation interested his cock in the proceedings, and when Erik’s hands slipped lower past the slant of his hips to the intimate and untouched parts of Charles’ body, Charles outright gasped.

  “ _Oh!”_ the cry of aroused surprise escaped Charles’ throat in a hitched sob, as Erik scooted back between Charles’ legs, wrapping one large and work-roughened palm around the length of his cock. Never touched by anyone other than himself, just once out of curiosity, Charles’ penis was painfully sensitive to the slightest touch.

Pre-come beaded at the head of his cock, and Erik was enraptured by the way Charles’ body writhed helplessly in virgin pleasure as he slowly stroked his hardening erection. Charles’ skin flushed an even prettier shade of pink, and his mouth was a red-lipped ‘O’ of pleas. This only spurred him on to be more painstakingly slow and torturous in his minstrations, fondling his balls and applying the slightest pressure at a particular point behind them—

Then Charles was coming, ejaculating white hot ribbons of come across his own stomach as his chest heaved deeply. It was then that Erik noticed the turgid nipples peaking Charles’ chest, only a few shades darker than his blush, and as sweet-looking as the rest of him. They looked utterly delectable, and Erik was leaning forward to pull one into his mouth before he actually realized what he was doing, lightly scraping his teeth against the sensitive flesh and stroking it in circular motions with his tongue. He was vaguely aware of Charles’ body bucking and arching desperately under him, of the younger god whimpering for Erik to stop, but all he knew was that everything he was doing was Charles’ first. He was Charles’ first. And come what may, he was going to be Charles’ last.

He pulled off the nipple with a wet, satisfying ‘pop’, and Charles was staring up at him in a mixture of adoration and lust, encouraging him to take the next and most important step.

Erik settled back on his haunches between Charles’ spread legs, which were resting on either side of his own hips. His cock was hardening again already, and beneath his smooth balls, Erik got a peek at the tight bud that was Charles’ hole, as resplendently unadulterated and unspoiled as the rest of him until Erik just recently debauched his nipples and cock.

  “Breathe, Charles,” Erik said, sounding contradictingly breathless as he slicked his fingers up with olive oil from the bedside table and pressed against the tight ring of muscle with the tip of his index finger.

Charles’ inhaled sharply as the finger slid in only too well, thanks to Erik’s generous oiling, all the way up to his knuckle and allowing Erik to just barely _tap_ against the bundle of nerves—Charles’ back curved into a near-perfect C as a startled scream of excited pleasure was ripped from his lungs. He collapsed back on the bed, squirming and pushing back on Erik’s finger to get more pressure on that spot, breathing hard and fast.

  “Erik--!”

  “I know, my love,” Erik soothed. “Be patient.”

Erik slid in a second finger, massaging the walls of Charles’ hole until they were pliant enough to accept a third, intermittently putting the faintest pressure on Charles’ prostrate until the young god was spitting and snarling at Erik to do it again, and harder. His body was like an instrument, and Erik was extracting the most brilliant melodies from him with his fingers alone. It was rather spectacular sight, seeing Charles unravel at Erik’s literal fingertips.

When Charles was finally able to accept all three fingers without resistance, Erik leaned over the smaller god’s body, surreptitiously lining up his cock with the loosened entrance.

  “Charles,” Erik murmured, and Charles lifted slightly tearful but still unfazingly brilliant blue eyes to meet his beloved’s gaze. “Deep breath.”

And he kissed him just as he pushed the head of his burgeoning erection past into Charles, prompting him to gasp into Erik’s mouth. His nails dug into his back as Charles scrambled for purchase on some kind of mainstay as the overwhelming sensation of being taken for the first time drew him under like a tidal wave. Erik kissed Charles harder, as though to distract him while he slid the rest of his cock into him, deeper and deeper, until his balls were pressed against Charles’ tight ass and he was fully seated inside him. Only then did Erik let Charles come up for air, and he took satisfaction in seeing Charles’ look _wrecked_.

His lips were wet and swollen from Erik’s kisses, and his body was drawn tighter than a fresh bowstring, fingers twisting in the sheets and expression dazed with wanton lust. The warm walls of his hole tightened around Erik’s dick, and he hissed. Charles dared to chuckle at his reaction, and Erik responded in kind by withdrawing just the slightest bit, then slamming back in as far and as hard as he could. The little tease fairly _screamed_ his name as his cock hit home on Charles’ prostrate.

  “ _Erik!”_ Charles grabbed at his shoulders, panting and shuddering. “ _More!”_

He gladly obliged, bracing himself on either side of Charles’ head with his forearms so he could piston his hips and thrust harder and deeper into the younger god. Charles’ legs moved to wrap around Erik’s waist, ankles locking behind his back to spur him on. He slammed into Charles like a man on a mission, hitting that bundle of nerves inside him with every thrust unfailingly.

  “ _Ah! Ah! Ungh!”_ Charles wailed and keened, and tears gathered at the corners of his eyes as the pleasure grew too much, too much. “ _Erik!”_

Erik squeezed his eyes shut as he felt Charles tighten around him, and heat coiled deep in his groin. He blindly sought out Charles’ lips once more, cradling his head between his hands as his cock was massaged by his tight, slick channel.

Then Charles was coming, and his cock was being clenched tighter and harder like never before, summoning his orgasm until it was crashing over him and making him flood Charles’ insides with his hot, thick come. The feeling of being filled so much wrung a second, smaller orgasm out of Charles, and he moaned and gripped harder at Erik’s shoulders.

  “Charles,” Erik gasped. “Charles, are you okay?”

Charles groaned, and smiled weakly. “Not quite the word I would use, my love.”

Erik sighed and rest his head against the soft curve of Charles’ neck. “Was it… was it good?”

  “I don’t exactly have a basis for comparison, you realize,” Charles chuckled, threading his fingers through Erik’s sweat-dampened hair.

Erik frowned. “But did you… did you like it?”

  “It was amazing,” Charles assured him gently and honestly. It had felt like being catapulted up into a star, and the climax had been like a freefall back to Earth, a powerful, frightening but addicting sensation. He kissed Erik’s temple. “You were amazing.”

Erik’s blush was like a furnace against Charles’ neck. “I love you.”

  “As I love you,” Charles murmured, finding himself drowsy in post-coital bliss. When Erik lifted his head to look at Charles properly, he found his beloved already snoring softly, and smiled as he pressed one more kiss to his open lips before drawing the sheets up around them and joining his beloved in the always-open arms of he who was called ‘Morpheus’ by the mortals.

* * *

   “This is getting out of hand,” Shaw snarled, pacing the length of his great throne room. The air smelled of ozone and burned hair, and crackled with his frustrated rage. “She’s laid waste to nearly half of our devotees, and reduced our offerings by _τα δύο τρίτα!”_  

  “Then perhaps you should have been a little more deliberate when giving romance advice to someone who’s as much a virgin in love as you are a philander in sex,” Emma said coolly.

  “How was I to know that common sense isn’t that common?” Shaw hissed. 

  “Give Charles back,” Sean sighed, lyre in his lap and unplayed for once. “My followers are too busy starving to offer me sacrifices, and for once I am unable to inflict retribution on them without facing even worse repercussions.”

Raven bit her lip, observing the other gods bemoan their own woes and tragedies. She herself had not escaped the consequences of Sharon’s wrath, whose angry curses had smote more than six of her lovers and decimated her offerings by a large fraction. But as the goddess of love, she was bound to her duty to inspire and encourage love between Charles and Erik. How could she say anything without going against her own nature? 

  “Angel!” Shaw snapped, and the winged messenger of the gods and goddess of trade, thieves, travellers and most importantly, guide of the dead to the Underworld and therefore the only one who didn't need Erik's stated permission to enter his kingdom, stood at attention. “Fetch Charles and deliver him to his mother. Avoid drawing Erik’s attention at all costs, do you understand?”

Angel looked nervous. “What if Erik has Charles by his side constantly? Am I supposed to take on one of the oldest three head-on in a fight?"

   “Convince Charles to leave him,” Shaw said curtly. “Or poison Erik. I don’t care. Just take him back to his mother. Or would you rather suffer further losses?”

Angel shook her head, and Raven internally cringed. This would not end well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know. It was lacklustre sex. I think so, too.
> 
> I changed the warnings, because I decided to write happy, consensual sex rather than rape.


	8. οκτώ: Price To Pay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles and Erik are essentially married. Angel pays the happy couple a visit, and leaves them a little less...happy.

Upon waking, Erik is granted the boon of being allowed to draw two more orgasms from Charles and watching as the younger god thrashed in a desperate bid for release, until the threefold howl of Cerberus rent the air and made Erik halt in his ministrations. Charles looked up at him with a despondent blue eyes, clutching frantically at Erik’s arms as he made to leave, only halfway up the mountain to the peak of a climax.

  “I’m sorry, Charles,” Erik groaned, wishing he could take the day off and spend it ravishing Charles until he was covered from brow to toe in Erik’s kisses, leaving him unmistakably his. “I have to go.”

  “Erik,” Charles begged, a lovely wretched noise that made Erik’s softening cock stand at attention once more. He took a hesitant step in Charles’ direction—

Cerberus howled again, more insistent this time. Erik swiped a hand over his face, making a noise of frustration that sounded like a cross between a grunt and a growl. Charles, despite having a painful erection and a hole that ached wantonly for something to fill it(namely, Erik’s penis), managed to chuckle.

  “I… I have to go,” Erik wisely kept his gaze averted from Charles’ supine form and his spread legs as he donned his toga and grabbed his Helm of Darkness. “I—“

  “I know, love,” Charles said wistfully, taking deep breaths to push his desires down. “If you were so willing to abandon your duties to stay with me in bed, you wouldn’t be the god I loved so much.”

Erik looked over his shoulder then, and seeing Charles in a much more modest state, trusted himself to go back and plant one more sweet kiss on those scarlet lips. They parted with affectionate, fond smiles and the bright warmth of pure joy glowing in their hearts like some inextinguishable candle.

* * *

When Erik did not return as expected after a few hours, Charles finally deigned to leave the bed and clean himself up. There was a library calling his name with more than a hundred unread tomes lining its shelves, and a garden that similarly demanded his presence. So he compromised, and with book and nectar in both hands, settled in the garden of jewelled flowers to pass the time. The spirits of the dead, forbidden from the garden by a ward Erik had put up, sounded louder than ever in the distance. Loud enough that they could not be passed off as the nonexistent breeze weaving through the literally emerald leaves overhead, and frequently distracting Charles from his book. After the fourth interruption by an anguished, harrowed scream, Charles slammed the book shut and scowled. There was no way he was going to be able to read and wait in peace for Erik to finish, so he considered what else he could do—

  “Bored?”

Charles jerked in surprise, upsetting the goblet of nectar into the ground and finding himself staring at none other than Angel, she who was mistaken as a male god ‘Hermes’ by the mortals (that incurred her wrath a few times, but eventually the oblivious mortals won and she had to acquiesce to the misunderstanding before she killed too many of her devotees). His jaw dropped, and Angel laughed.

  “Guide to the Underworld, remember?” Angel smirked, flitting around in the air, her wings a too-fast blur behind her back.

  “Right,” Charles muttered. “Any particular reason why you’re here? In _my_ garden?”

  “Your garden?” Angel looked stupefied. “You mean Erik gave this monstrosity to you? Talk about gaudy.”

  “It is the sweetest and the most lovely gift anyone has ever given me,” Charles said acidly, roaring to Erik’s defense. “Not to mention the most thoughtful thing anyone has ever done for me.”

  “If he hadn’t kidnapped you, this wouldn’t be necessary,” Angel arched an eyebrow. “You do realize that, right?”

Charles shifted uneasily. He _did_ recognize that fact, but still.

  “Come on,” Angel wheedled. “Don’t tell me you don’t miss the surface. What about real trees, and real flowers? And real dirt under your feet?”

The thing was, Charles _did_ miss it all. To be able to feel the wind on his cheeks and smell the blooming beauties in the meadow, and have the company of the forest animals.

But _Erik_. Erik, who always thought of Charles first and foremost, and tried to give him everything. Erik, who was like an awkward youth courting his first love, and never told any lies to get his way. Erik, who respected Charles and had waited with saintly patience for Charles to accept and learn to love him.

There would be no real place on the surface where he could feel the same way as he did with Erik. Loved, wanted, understood.

  “Charles?” Angel prodded, leaning too close for his liking.

  “I do miss it, yes,” Charles admitted. “But I don’t need it.”

Angel’s eyes narrowed. “Come on, you don’t mean that. Your mother is the goddess of the harvest, and you’re the god of all things that grow green and good. Staying down here must be like being stuck in prison.”

Charles had thought the same way not all that long ago, but that was before Erik had begun courting him, and had endeared him so closely to his heart. “I mean what I said, Angel. I miss the surface but I don’t feel a particular need to go back.”

  “Why, because you love Erik?” Angel scoffed, and she was stunned when Charles didn’t answer, but instead gave her a cold glare. “You must be joking. He’s the god of _death_ , Charles. He should be your archrival, your enemy. He’s the antithesis of what you are! Not to mention a sulky, depressing bastard. Look at this place! How can you possibly like him, much less love him!”

Charles slowly got to his feet, fists clenched so hard he felt like his knuckles might burst through the taut skin. “I would have you take those words back, Angel, right now. And I would have your apology for insulting my husband.”

  “ _Husband_?” Angel hissed incredulously. “You mean to say you actually _married_ him?”

  “I did,” Charles had never felt more ridiculously proud in his life before.

  “Charles,” Angel was caught between fear and horror. “Did he rape you? He did, right?”

  “Erik would never do something so barbaric,” Charles practically snarled. “He isn’t like you or the other gods! He asks for my permission to even _touch_ me! Can the same be said for the other gods? For my father, who practically assaulted my mother and defiled anything that vaguely even resembled a a hole when it crossed his path?”

Angel stepped back, shocked by his vehemence.

  “I love Erik,” Charles said, calmer now that he had made his point. “And he loves me. I would give up the surface and my powers just for him.”

Angel shook her head, almost pityingly, and Charles geared himself up for another fight. “You won’t be so happy to say that when you realize what Erik has done.”

Charles frowned. “What? What did Erik do?”

Angel smirked again, lifting off into the air, wings humming. “You’ll find it out in due time. Anytime you want to go home, to your _real home_ , on the surface where you _belong_ , just call for me. I’ll be hearing from you soon, Charles.”

  “Angel!” Charles called sharply, but she was gone, taking with her Charles’ certainty. 

* * *

After pacing in serious rumination for almost an hour, Charles gave up and went to look for Erik, deciding the get the answer from the horse’s mouth. He found him in the throne room, cleared off dead spirits and slumped over in his throne, with Cerberus standing watch. Charles stifled a snort of laughter when he saw his husband slouched in his imposing chair meant to intimidate and instill fear and respect in those who saw him, fast asleep and even mumbling nonsense under his breath.

Cerberus perked up upon sight of Charles, and managed to whine his way into getting a few ear rubs for each head out of him.

  “Erik, darling,” Charles managed not to burst into peals of laughter when he touched Erik’s shoulder and the supposedly fearsome god of death jerked upright, looking otherwise somber if not for the bleary look about his eyes, still with one foot in the world of dreams.

  “Charles,” Erik yawned, reaching up for Charles’ face and cupping it gently with one hand. “How long was I asleep?”

Charles perched himself on the arm of Erik’s throne, smiling as he ran his fingers through his beloved’s hair and Angel’s mysterious seed of doubt momentarily forgotten in the wake of his adoration. “I wouldn’t know. I just came in, and there you were. Sleeping on the job. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

  “Mm,” Erik revelled in Charles’ touch. “I should be. But I can’t when it means making you smile.”

Charles let himself laugh. It was so easy to do that, when Erik was the one giving him reasons to.

  “I love you,” Erik mumbled into Charles’ stomach as he wrapped his arms around his waist, nuzzling the toga where it was scrunched around his midsection. “And I missed you.”

  “Are you really exhausted?” Charles murmured, curious and playful at the same time. “Too exhausted to take me back to bed?”

Erik was, in fact, not too exhausted for that.

Later, when they were curled up against each other and content to drift in the haze of post-coital bliss, Charles abruptly (and in retrospect, rather anti-climatically) recalled Angel’s enigmatic parting statement. He propped himself up on one elbow and gazed down at Erik’s dozing face. His stare could apparently be _felt_ , because Erik was blinking his eyes open lethargically and reaching up to tuck a stray curl behind Charles’ ear.

  “What is it?” Erik teased. “Is my prowess so weak that I cannot induce you into incoherency for at least a few more minutes?”

  “I’m afraid you still need more practice, my love,” Charles chuckled, nuzzling into Erik’s palm where it was laid against his cheek.

  “What is it?” Erik repeated, tone less teasing but no less gentle, as his eyes roved over Charles’ face like he still couldn’t believe what he was seeing was real. “Charles?”

Charles bit his lip. “Angel came by to visit. While you were conducting your judgement sessions.”

Erik lurched upright, startling Charles. “What? Why didn’t you tell me? Did she hurt you?”

  “No,” Charles quickly took Erik’s hands into his own, attempting to look the wild and frenzied look in his beloved’s eyes. “She didn’t hurt me. And I didn’t tell you earlier because you were tired and…”

A dot connected in Charles’ mind, like a puzzle piece slotting itself in place. Whatever the big picture was, it was still uncertain in Charles’ mind, hazy and just out of reach. He cupped Erik’s face in his hands, frowning.

  “Judgement sessions don’t usually wear you out to the point where you fall asleep on your throne,” Charles murmured. That much was certain; while judgement sessions did tend to make Erik slightly crankier than usual, and perhaps shorten his temper a bit, it was nothing that couldn’t be cured with a bit of cuddling. It never made him _exhausted_.

  “There were a lot of souls that needed attention,” Erik said defensively, but as if to prove Charles’ point, he yawned like a full stop to that statement.

  “How much more than the usual?” Charles couldn’t stop feeling a nagging sense of concern in the back of his mind, like something important had gone very wrong.

  “I’m not sure,” Erik frowned a bit. “But definitely more than twice the average number. Why? Charles, what’s wrong?”

  “I…” Charles trailed off, not entirely sure what he was getting at himself.

Erik had kidnapped him, yes. Where that was concerned, Angel was right. But what other wrong had Erik committed? None, to Charles’ knowledge. So that would likely mean that the implications of Erik’s kidnapping would have caused serious repercussions on the surface, enough to warrant dispatching _Angel_ to seek Charles out in the Underworld. It was no secret that Erik guarded the entrances and the exits to his domain, but it was not out of greed or possessiveness: rather, to protect those who would not have survived the miasma of death that pervaded the Underworld. Angel was the guide of the dead to the Underworld, and she answered to very few, being a free spirit and a _fast_ one who could run from danger should she see it coming. She answered to the oldest gods, most notably Shaw who used her like an errand-girl, and like all the gods she had the same weakness—her devotees and her offerings. The gods treated the mortals callously, but should their worshippers and their offerings be lacking in both quality and quantity, they would not be able to overlook it.

So the gods must be suffering a deficit in that aspect, and be desperate enough to send Angel after Charles.

But what did that have to do with Erik?

 _Sharon_.

The answer came like a funeral bell tolling in his head, the last piece of the puzzle finally being put in place. His mother must have gone on a rage when she realized that Charles was gone, for though her maternal instincts were not the ideal, they were still present. She must have wrought havoc on the surface, as some form of blackmail or leverage for Charles to be returned to her. Like he was some kind of prize or treasure to be given back.

And her curses must have killed a great many, decreasing the offerings and worshippers of the other gods, whilst increasing Erik’s workload and tiring him out.

  “Oh,” Charles gasped, clutching at his chest. Myron, the soul of the dead child he’d met the first day Erik had taken him. He must have died because of his mother’s rage. How many more had fallen to her wrath? To the consequences of Erik’s actions?

Erik was still staring at him, equal parts confused and concerned. “Charles? What is it? Talk to me, darling?”

Charles turned to look at him slowly. To warrant the gods’ desperations, the death toll must have been devastating. And every second Charles continued to lay in Erik’s arms, it rose. He was looking at the man whose careless actions had killed so many, too many.

And he was paying for it. It was there in the shadows under his eyes, the fatigue in the lines of his face. Erik was paying the price for his actions by having to deal with a greater workload, more souls to accommodate and answer to. Whether or not he knew the part he had played in having more souls to judge, Charles knew not. But he knew that even if Erik _did_ know about it, he would not have done it any other way. He would not give Charles up, not even if it meant having less work to do.

Because he loved Charles, and for all his flaws and imperfections, Charles loved him. Desperately, wholly, unmitigatedly. The death of the world’s population might make him flinch when questioned of the depth of his love for Erik, but he would still stand fast and say it was worth it.

And it was because he loved Erik, that Charles was going to make the ultimate sacrifice for him.

  “Nothing, sweetheart,” Charles closed his eyes to keep the stinging of tears at bay, leaning forward to kiss Erik like his heart was being crushed into pieces by his own hand. “Absolutely nothing.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shhh...


	9. εννέα: Goodbye, My Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles does the wrong thing for what he thinks are all the right reasons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short, brief chapter.

Once Charles had made up his mind, he couldn’t stop touching Erik. He couldn’t help it. Knowing that every grazing of skin, every press of their lips, every rub of their noses, every rake of fingers through hair might be their last… how could anyone blame him for wanting just one more touch? One more moment to fold away into his heart so that one day, when he was able to look back upon this brief interlude of love and sweet warmth without crying, he might be able to unfold it and recall the passion that had run like an electric undercurrent between them beneath the gentleness with which they loved.

If Erik was surprised by his clingy behavior, he said nothing. He merely smiled that faintly amused smile of his, the hint of a curl at the corners of his lips, the barest peek of his teeth between them, and let Charles skim his fingers over every inch of his skin. He smelled like the libation fragrances of the dead, of milk and honey and wine. It was a curious scent to be found on the god of the dead, because one would expect him to smell like rotting corpses. But Charles found it incredibly delicious and comforting, more so than his own mother’s scent of ripe wheat and barley. He held Charles deep into the eternal night of the Underworld, face buried in his crown and body a warm furnace.

When Charles was certain that Erik was fast asleep, he let the tears fall. He made no noise save for deep, shuddery breaths every now and then. He didn’t bother wiping them away from his cheeks, letting them stain the silk pillows, but instead traced the contours of Erik’s face with the lightest of touches, committing every single curve and angle to memory. He wanted to be able to remember his first, last and only love with perfect clarity until all had faded and time stopped, and even long after that.

 _I love you_ , Charles silently mouthed, tears coming hotter and faster. _Like the sun loves the moon. Even though I cannot have you, and our love can only be a burden… I will love you into the grey hours of the dawn and the fading hours of twilight of life, and even after that I will still love you._

He didn’t know when he’d fallen asleep, but then Erik was gently shaking him awake. He was smiling like nothing was wrong, unaware of Charles internal anguish and wretched decision. Charles yawned, and momentarily forgetting the misery of last night, scowled at Erik drowsily.

  “The dead await me,” Erik said wryly, and stamped a kiss to Charles’ forehead, amused as ever by Charles’ lethargy. “I apologize for interrupting your slumber. Rest, my love. I will be back as soon as I can.”

Charles nearly slipped back under the refuge of sleep, until he remembered, and then he was leaping out of the bed and dashing across the floor to Erik in the doorway. Erik turned around, surprised, but he recovered quickly enough to steady both himself and Charles when the latter threw himself at him. Charles wrapped his arms around Erik’s shoulders and pulled him down for a kiss. To Erik, that kiss was just a slightly out-of-the-ordinary kiss, full of heavy want and need, a promise of love-making later.

But to Charles… that was their last kiss. He closed his eyes and willed his tears back, memorizing the lineation of Erik’s lips, the rhythm of their love made corporeal.

  “I love you,” Charles whispered when he finally released Erik. He was proud that his voice did not give away his thoughts, or the pain that was binding his heart with wickedly sharp barbs and thorns.

  “And I love you,” Erik chuckled, still completely in the dark with regards to Charles’ intentions. “Now go back to sleep.”

He left, and Charles trailed his fingers along Erik’s mantle as he departed, struggling not to call him back for one more, just one more kiss. And so he steeled his heart, trying to ignore its already-fragmented state as he tugged on his robe, and smoothed his hair away from his face before making the once-loved, but now heavily dreaded journey to his gardens. He passed the library filled with books and other treasures Erik had given him, and paused. Then he entered the majestic room that had taken only a beautiful, hopeful thought from Erik’s mind to build, and picked up the music box on the table beside the chess set that was still unfinished in play, pieces out of their starting places when the game had been abandoned in favor of making heated love in Erik’s lap. The music box was a curiously complicated thing, all metal gears that made sense to no one except perhaps Hank, and its outer casing was solid cypress wood. It had the most intricate carvings inlaid into the tangerine-colored material, depicting a miniature version of what could be no one else other than Charles and Erik, in each other’s arms, surrounded by vines and flowers.

He clutched it tightly to his chest, and tried hard not to sob as he fled the library and headed down into his garden where only more memories of Erik awaited in the jewel-made flowers and leaves. He closed his eyes, attempting to stay the tears, and called Angel’s name.

  “Made up your mind, I see,” Angel sounded like she was right next to him, but he didn’t open his eyes. He didn’t want to see the beautiful gardens Erik had given him, and instead concentrated on the comoforting, solid weight of the music box in his hands.

  “Do what you have to do now, before I change my mind,” Charles choked out, knowing that Angel wouldn’t torture him by teasing him about his love for Erik, lest she risk him changing his mind and dooming the gods to the extinction of their devotees. She put her hands firmly on her shoulders, and there was a rush of saffron-scented air, and it diffused to give way to the smell of rain and thunder.

Charles opened his eyes, saw that he was in Olympus with all the gods in attendance watching him accusatorially, and his heart shattered completely.

* * *

  “You’re safe now,” Sharon soothed, stroking Charles’ hair awkwardly. She’d never been one for affection, and had left Charles’ to his own devices almost immediately after giving him his name upon birth. “You’re home.”

 _No, I’m not_ , Charles wept in his mother’s arms for none of the happy reasons she was repeating. _This isn’t home._

He clung desperately to every memory of Erik that he had tried to carve into his mind, and in the midst of his tears and sorrow, he couldn’t recall the exact shade of Erik’s eyes, the exact taste of his lips. What had the nights spent cocooned in his arms felt like? What was the exact temperature of his body, pressed against his back? What had his voice sounded like, when it was breathlessly whispering sweet nothings in his ear as he released his seed inside Charles? Thick, heaving sobs wracked Charles’ body, and he tamped down on the urge to wail.

  “You rest, baby,” Sharon cooed, laying him down on the bed, no doubt tiring of comforting her upset son. The maternal instinct had passed; satisfied, she was off to her string of human lovers and whatever else she filled her time with.

Charles lay there in the bed of silk sheets, pearl white in Olympus as opposed to the ebony black of Hell.

  “Erik,” Charles cried into his pillow, nearly suffocating himself. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

He prayed that this had relieved Erik’s burden, that Erik wouldn’t be too angry with him for leaving. He prayed that Erik would forgive him and at least be able to look back fondly upon their time together, someday.

He fell asleep when he had cried all his tears out, and when he awakened, he stubbornly refused to speak with the gods of his time in Hell. Shaw had been incandescent with rage, having suffered a considerable loss, and practically interrogated Charles. He tried to sympathize with Charles, sounding condescending and pitying. He tried to threaten Charles, but Charles only remained stony-faced. He tried to cajole Charles, wheedling and bribing. But Charles only had one wish, and it was a wish none of the gods would see granted.

He went back to the meadow in that rural village in Sicily where he’d first met Erik, and found it ravaged yellow and wilting by his mother’s wrath. With a turn of his hands, he revived the earth and flopped down onto the green grass.

A white wildflower swayed over his head, and with a sort of fascination, he stroked its tiny petals and marvelled at the waxy velvetness. He had to admit, he’d missed this a little. The simple, understated beauty of a daisy in bloom was something Erik, no matter how hard he tried, could not replicate with his dazzling stones. He didn’t know how long he lay there, just staring at the flower, when he heard the crunch of grass underfoot approaching. Wild hope lurched in his chest— _Erik?—_

  “Seriously?” Raven stared at him, hands on her hips with her brow scrunched up. She’d chosen the form of a young blonde this time. “This is how you’re gonna spend your life now? Pining?”

Charles sighed, not bothering to hide his disappointment. “Hello to you too, Raven.”

  “Shaw is pissed off,” Raven remarked, sitting down beside him cross-legged.

  “Nothing new there,” Charles mumbled, plucking the daisy and twirling it between his fingers. He wasn’t really in the mood for company.   “He’s either pissed, murdering someone, or having sex.”

  “True,” Raven said thoughtfully, turning to look at Charles. “How are you, Charles? Really? Did he hurt you?"

  "Erik would never hurt me!" Charles jumped to the defense of his beloved. "He was patient, and kind and nothing but chivalrous."

  "Charles," Raven huffed exasperatedly. "He's the god of the  _dead_. I mean, how chivalrous can the ruler of the Underworld be?"

  "He was lovely," Charles insisted. "And he and I love each other." His voice turned hollow. “I miss him. It’s like my heart broke when I decided to leave him. I did it  _for_ him. He was getting exhausted having to deal with the dead souls my mother put in his realm.”

This was Raven, his childhood friend who’d laughed uproariously when he’d accidentally gotten tangled with a farmer’s daughter but still intervened before he could get impaled on a pitchfork by the farmer himself. She’d been the closest thing to a friend he could get, but between the long string of lovers and her unhappy marriage to Hank, she wasn’t available all the time like Erik had been. But perhaps he could tell her the truth and she would believe it, too...

  “Oh, Charles,” Raven said softly. “We’re gods. We don’t have hearts. The closest thing to love we have is just… sex. Marriage is but a name, a bond not worth honoring.”

He would have argued with her, but he looked into her eyes and saw only her honesty, the truth of her own opinion. She’d been forced to marry someone she despised, and had very few role models other than Shaw and Emma, whose marriage had been hardly the most ideal when Shaw was off procreating bastards with women like his mother and Emma had been on a jealous rage for as long as Charles could remember. Raven knew nothing of love between gods, despite being the goddess of love itself. All she knew was that they weren’t like mortals, with lives short enough to consider the idea of true love and happily ever afters. Gods had eternity, and she didn’t think happy endings were for their kind.

  “Erik is…” Charles swallowed the urge to cry all over again. “I love Erik. I mean it, Raven! There’s no other way to explain how I feel for him.”

  “You might just be fascinated by him, Charles!” Raven argued. “He kidnapped you, but he provided for you. What you think might be love isn’t love at all! It’s just…some kind of mind trick!”

He’d been a fool to think Raven, goddess of love though she was, would believe him. Shaw had said just as much, trying to pass off his feelings as a result of imprisonment, some kind of morbid fascination with something disgusting like the way one would be fascinated by snails despite how gross they were. He’d been set to argue, to fight and to prove that he truly did love Erik. But what would that have done? Shaw would not send him back to Erik, not when his mother’s devastation had driven them to the edge of such desperation.

  “I love him,” Charles said softly. “And no one can ever convince me otherwise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next one is going to hurt even more.


	10. δέκα: Was I Enough?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik comes to terms (or doesn't) with Charles' departure. Charles makes an interesting discovery.

Cerberus whined, one wet nose nudging at Erik’s shoulder as he slumped over under a jewelled tree, head in his hands. The beast was trying to remind his master of a pending judgement session that awaited his presence, but all Erik could think was: _Charles had left him_.

Why? Had he done something wrong? Or was it something he _hadn’t_ done? His mind cast wildly for a valid reason, a reason Charles might have to validate his leaving Erik. Perhaps he missed the surface, his true home? Or Erik’s gifts might have reminded him of the surface, and he’d felt like a caged bird? There were so many valid reasons, now that Erik was thinking about it. And they’d all been there when Erik had first brought Charles to the Underworld, and tentatively sought his favor and affection.

He never realized how much it would _hurt_ —loving Charles had brought him a joy and a contentment he’d never known or even knew he wanted. It was waking up to find his warm body curled up against Erik’s, seeking contact even in sleep. It was the passionate love they made on the desk in the library, in the gardens, on his throne, in their bed. It was the quiet conversation of moral debates and teasing banter over a game of chess and a few cups of nectar.

And now, it was all gone. One moment Charles was there, real and in Erik’s arms; and the next, he wasn’t. He had been but a sweet dream, and he’d left Erik bereft and broken in the moments of awakening.

He hadn’t even realized he was crying, a strange and unfamiliar action that he was acquainted with observing in the spirits of the dead when they passed under his eye, but not intimately so. It relieved the horrible ache in his chest just the slightest bit, alleviating the pressure by giving the pain some sort of outlet. Cerberus whined again, this time in concern.

Charles had left him. He’d said he loved Erik, didn’t he? Just this morning, the last time he saw Charles, and their last kiss had been—

Charles had known he was going to leave Erik. He'd planned it, even when they'd been promising each other an eternal love as their bodies were entwined in the same bed. _T_ _hat_ was why he’d been so clingy last night, why he’d been unnaturally energetic so quickly after waking up, leaping out of bed to kiss Erik goodbye.

The ache in his chest worsened, if that was even possible. He gasped, struggling to endure, confused as to what it was exactly. He clutched at the spot where it hurt the most, and in a haze he realized faintly: _oh. That’s my heart breaking._

He hadn’t even had time to prepare himself for this, despite knowing that one day, hopefully centuries and eons later, Charles might get bored and tired of Erik. He hadn’t had the time to memorize Charles properly, to commit every modulation of his voice and the precise shade of his eyes to memory, that he might be able to keep Charles’ smile alive in his mind long after Charles was gone. Now, now he had to get used to waking up alone and reaching out only to touch cold sheets and an empty pillow. He would close the library down, maybe demolish it entirely with all its things still inside, so that it wouldn’t hurt everytime he looked upon it and realized that Charles had found his gifts unworthy. That he had found _Erik_ unworthy of loving.

Charles had loved the surface world more than he had loved Erik. Everything Erik had offered him was insufficient in comparison to the surface world and what it offered. 

Slowly, almost like he was being puppeteered rather than moving of his own volition, he got up and headed for the room he had shared with Charles. The room where they had lain together for the first time, and for many more times afterwards. He closed the door without so much as looking around inside for any more memoirs of Charles, maybe a scent of him in the sheets, and locked it. He didn’t need to remember Charles.

Not when it hurt so much to even think of his name.

* * *

Charles staggered away from the meadow, _his_ meadow where he’d first met Erik, and vomited into a ditch. His body was shrouded in nausea, and a shiver ran down his body as he continued to regurgitate the contents of his stomach. There was a foul taste in his mouth once he’d finally had nothing left to expel, and his stomach ached. It had been but a few mortal weeks since he’d returned to the surface world and left Erik, and he’d spent most of it replaying memories of his time with Erik in the meadow where they’d first met. None of the other gods had bothered him, and slowly the mortal world recovered from Sharon’s wrath, doubling their efforts to appease and please the gods.

Raven occasionally stopped by, but once Charles realized that she would never understand that he loved Erik, he told her not to come again. Sharon visited him, _once_ , to lecture him about getting out in the world and attracting his own devotees (he largely ignored her until she got annoyed and disappeared). The most frightening, unexpected and unwanted visit had been from Shaw, who’d suddenly taken a rather unflattering interest in Charles since his ‘incident’ with Erik. He’d tried to run away, but Shaw had grabbed his elbow painfully and assured him that the gods would do anything to prevent Erik from seeing Charles ever again.

When he wasn’t being bothered, he made flower crowns to the tune of the music box that he was taking everywhere with him. The lullaby strengthened his memories of Erik, and the precious time they’d had together. He imagined Erik defying the gods and coming to find him once more, to take him away and consequences be damned.

Reality was a cruel, wicked thing. Erik had likely been so upset with him for leaving that he’d cursed Charles to the sun and back, and forgotten about him entirely. Perhaps he would take some other woman or a nymph as a lover, and mention Charles as a former bedwarmer in passing, vaguely insulting him in some crude way.

All the was certain was that Erik had not sought him out again, nor had he attempted to contact Charles in any way. He heard no news of the Underworld, other than that it was operating as per normal. Erik was fine, Angel said (a little too smugly) when Charles pressed her, and was executing his duties perfectly. So much for hoping that Erik would rebel by refusing to do his duties unless Charles was given back to him.

Charles cried himself bitterly and sorrowfully to sleep, and sometimes during the waking hours, too. The funniest, most innocuous things would trigger him: a particularly vibrant flower, a dog, a child with a toy in hand, a footsoldier’s helmet. He would sob thickly and heavily, shuddering as they overwhelmed him. It would take more than an hour to calm him down, and another to get him to stop hiccuping and sniffling.

He missed Erik with such profundity that it was like a blade twisting itself repeatedly in his chest, unrelenting and unforgiving. The music box provided a little comfort, but that was all. He wanted so badly to wake up in Erik’s arms again, to be given the chance to explain and apologize and beg Erik to take him back to the Underworld. He wanted to kiss Erik one more time, just one more time.

But now, he had to worry about the fact that he was _ill_. Gods didn’t get sick, they were _immortal_ , for goodness’ sake. At most, Shaw might vomit after one too many cups of alcohol and nectar, but Charles hadn’t been imbibing much of the two of late. In fact, he hadn’t been consuming much of anything. So why was his stomach rejecting what little sustenance he put in it?

He went back to the meadow, hoping to calm his insides with fresh air and contemplative garland-making. But not half an hour later he was stumbling to his feet once more and throwing up bile into the same ditch.

Resigned, he disappeared to Olympus and lay down in bed, summoning Jean, she who was called “Asclepius” by the mortals.

  “Hello, Charles,” her flame red hair was pulled back and tied up, and her smile was calm. She harbored him no ill will, and neither understood nor tried to understand him, instead choosing to distance herself from the politics of Olympus and concentrating on her own.

  “Hello, Jean,” Charles managed a weak smile in polite greeting. “I’m sorry to have bothered you, but I think I’m ill.”

Jean’s eyebrow went up. “You realize gods and goddesses are unsusceptible to sickness, right?”

  “I vomited an hour ago,” Charles said succinctly. “Twice. And I’m getting dizzy spells.”

  “Ah,” she murmured, understanding dawning in her tone. “Have you been… sexually active of late?”

Charles blushed furiously. “I don’t think that’s any of your business, Jean.”

  “I’m not asking for gossip fodder or simple curiosity, Charles. I need to confirm something, if what your ailment is what I think.”

  “Yes,” Charles mumbled, giving up when Jean eyed him sternly.

She got up and looked him over, fingers lightly pressing down on his abdomen. Her fingers felt like the pads of a cat’s paw, rough, soft and small. After a few moments, she sat back and nodded. “You’re with child.”

Charles stared at her dumbly. “Beg your pardon?”

Honestly, if this was some kind of practical joke…

  “You’re with child, Charles,” she repeated, no trace of mirth in her eyes. Oh, good grief, she was serious.

  “I… I can’t be… I have male organs, Jean!”

  “Your mother was the goddess of the harvest, and you have control over the fertility of the earth,” Jean shrugged. “Why would that same fertility not apply to your own body?”

  “I might be able to impregnate someone, but I…I can’t be impregnated! I’m a _male_ ,” Charles exclaimed.

  “Well, you’ve been having penetrative anal sex with someone, am I correct?” Jean was clearly not interested in who the other party might have been. “Then whoever ‘penetrated’ you fathered that baby in your belly.”

Without so much as a by-your-leave, she vanished, leaving Charles without further explanation. Charles slumped back on the bed, stunned beyond belief. He hadn’t been this speechless and shocked since Erik had kidnapped him to the Underworld.

Erik. The father of the baby in his stomach, if Jean’s diagnosis was accurate. But she was the deity of health and medicine, so it was incredibly unlikely that she was wrong. A _baby_ , in his _belly_. Just a few centimeters under his skin, growing and alive like the flowers in his meadow. Erik’s baby.

His mind wasn’t catching on, but his instincts clearly were, because he found himself stroking the flat plane of his stomach before he even realized it. What would his mother say? What would Raven and Shaw and the other gods say? Would Jean tell them? Or would they find out when his belly swelled with the unmistakable girth of a child? What would he do?

What about Erik? He deserved to know, as the father of his child. And he owed that much to Erik, for everything he’d done wrong by him. For abandoning him despite claiming to love him.

Erik might curse at him, be furious and shout the walls down when he saw Charles. He might swear and scream and refuse to speak to Charles, but he would never hurt him. No, not even in rage or anger would he hurt Charles, of that much he was certain. And that faith in Erik, despite being wobbly and shaky, steeled his resolve to take the necessary steps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry if I rushed it too much! I couldn't bear the thought of describing Erik's pain in more detail-- I was hurting already on his behalf. This was originally a longer chapter, leaking over into *ahem* spoilers *ahem*. So I divided it into one chapter and half of the next!


	11. έντεκα: In My Arms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik reunites with Charles *squeee*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To all you lovelies who have so wonderfully and kindly shown your support by way of your comments, I thank you all with a grateful heart for taking the effort and the time to send me them. I am so sorry that I don't have the time to reply each and every one of you as I once used to (oh how the times have changed and slipped by to become far and few between), but let me just give a huge hug to all of you.

Erik spent the time between the execution of his duties walking the Fields of Asphodel, where the neither good nor evil spirits dwelled. It was a wretched place, gloomy and miserable, a great plain of tiny white flowers and grayish long grass that swayed in a breeze that didn’t exist. It was the one place that Charles had not touched in his memory, the one place that didn’t remind Erik of his loss and his inadequacy in Charles’ eyes.

Cerberus sometimes accompanied him, snapping at spirits that got too close and generally heeling Erik in a silent attempt at solace. But he offered very little comfort, for Erik’s heart was as hollow as the trees that grew on the Fields, and there was even less that could change that. He’d even taken to building a new wing in his palace, to get away from the memories in the rest of it, to box it away and try to amputate his mind and heart away from the pain.

Charles had wounded him too deeply, and he held out very little hope for even the thought of recoevering enough to ever open up the box of memories ever again without crying.

Which was why when he returned to the fortress, he was understandably confused and stupefied to see Angel escorting Charles up the front steps. It was, of course, impossible. It had to be a trick of the light, some elaborate illusion by one of the gods, meant to torment him. Perhaps another dream.

  “Erik?”

It was real. It was really Charles, standing on the front steps of his fortress, looking a little fatigued and nervous as he twisted his delicate fingers in the material of his robe, but otherwise as if he’d never left. Erik couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t think, and when he became conscious of himself, his arms were already around Charles and his nose was buried in his hair, breathing in that heady scent of wildflowers and open skies.

  “Charles,” Erik choked out, unable to put a voice to the questions that demanded asking. _Why did you leave me? Was I not enough for you? Why did you come back? Are you here to hurt me again?_

  “Erik,” Charles had pressed his face into Erik’s neck, having thrown his own arms around him as well, and the god of death was understandably startled to feel warm wetness against his skin. Charles was _crying_.

It had to be _some_ kind of proof that Charles must have at least _liked_ him, enough to want to touch him. But the way Charles was sobbing, and Angel was standing over there looking distinctly uncomfortable… it made hope flare in his chest, hesitant and afraid of being hurt, but hope nonetheless. Hope that Charles loved him a little bit at most, that he hadn’t meant to hurt Erik so much. It was perhaps a futile hope, but Erik found it hard to be pessimistic when his first and only love was weeping desperately in his arms and clutching at him like he was afraid Erik was going to vanish, when the reverse was more likely to occur.

  “Charles,” Erik held Charles at arm’s length, shakily thumbing away Charles’ copious tears from his flushed cheeks, faintly thinking that his eyes looked like sapphires when they were wet and glistening like this. “My love. Why—what---?”

  “I’m sorry,” Charles hiccuped, gasping between sobs. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—I thought I was helping you—you were so tired, and my mother, she was killing people and making your life difficult so I thought—“

Erik gave a weak laugh, understanding finally breaking through the fog in his head. Charles, dear sweet Charles who always thought of others above himself. He was a fool to have thought that Charles was selfish enough to break Erik’s heart without a second thought. Charles had been thinking of _him_ , of how to ease _his_ burden, when he’d left. More fool him, for even letting Charles to come to such conclusion and landing them both in such a situation.

  “Sweetheart,” Erik spoke between kisses, pressing his lips to Charles’ forehead, his temple, his cheek, his nose, his lips. “I would have gladly endured a burdensome workload all the rest of my life to keep you by my side for even one more mortal day.”

  “I know you would,” Charles gave him a watery smile, his hand coming up to cup Erik’s cheek. “But that would have left you with very little energy for… other things.”

Erik roared with genuine, heartfelt laughter. This was his beloved Charles indeed, no doubt about that.

  “I missed you,” Charles murmured, tracing the curve of Erik’s lips with a finger, eyes tearing up again. “I missed you so much and I—“

  “I love you,” Erik said fiercely, both hands going to frame Charles’ face. “Tell me that your feelings are the same, that they weren’t a lie or some cruel trick of the gods.”

  “I love you,” Charles whispered, not a trace of doubt or falsity in his brilliantly blue eyes. “I love you more than anyone or anything else.”

He pulled Charles into his arms once more and let his beloved knit his heart back together with warm tears that wet the side of his neck.

Angel coughed awkwardly, and Erik pinned her with a fearsome glare for interrupting, for even _existing_ to stand between them. “What?”

  “I believe Charles has something to tell you,” Angel said pointedly.

Erik gripped Charles tighter. “You’re not taking him away from me. Not again.”

  “That’s not the priority at the moment,” Angel said coolly. “Charles?”

Charles swallowed thickly, and Erik just wanted to take him to bed, tuck him in and soothe away whatever might be burdening him. He looked utterly wrecked, and in serious need of at least a century of rest. When he opened his mouth to speak, his voice was tremulous.

  “Erik,” Charles mumbled.

  “Shh,” Erik pressed his lips to the younger god’s forehead, trying to soothe away whatever was worrying him that made his voice tremble so. “Whatever’s bothering you, it can wait. You look tired, and you need to rest.”

Angel made a noise of protest that Erik silenced with a look, and Charles gripped his shoulder tightly, swaying on his feet.

  “Erik,” Charles whispered, eyes searching Erik’s face for something he hoped to find. “I… I’m with child. Your child.”

Erik burst out laughing. “Very funny, Charles.”

Charles remained sober, and Angel wasn’t laughing either. In fact, Angel’s expression was rather grim, and Charles looked like he was about to cry again, gnawing at his bottom lip until it was eye-catchingly red.

  “You’re serious,” Erik stammered, grip going slack on Charles and feeling his mind shut down. “Charles, you’re _male_. I _saw--_ ”

Here, Charles rolled his eyes. “I am aware.”

  “How--?” Erik stuttered, floundering.

  “Deity of fertility in all and any form, I suppose,” Charles shrugged, but then he was worried all over again. “Erik?”

Erik closed his eyes. He needed a moment to let his mind function again, and catch on to exactly what Charles was saying.

A child. Half Charles, half Erik. A child with maybe Charles’ eyes, smile and just generally a carbon copy of him because there was nothing worth inheriting from Erik, except maybe an absolute love for Charles bred deep in their bones. A child that would hopefully learn to at least like Erik, as a friend if not a father, and be willing to go to him for comfort and assurance of safety when Charles was unavailable.

Another being to love, to hold dear and to keep close to his lonely heart.

  “Charles,” Erik gasped, kissing Charles desperately. “Please say you’ll stay with me. Don’t leave me.”

  “I won’t,” Charles was weeping now, and this time his tears were of a happier melody. “I won’t. Erik, I swear, I won’t—“

  “That is not your decision to make, Charles,” Angel cut in, and Erik _snarled_ at her. “Nor is it yours, Erik.”

   “What are you talking about?” Erik growled, pulling Charles closer to him and angling his body such that he was between him and Angel. “He’s carrying my child! I would sooner release Hell on earth than let him go—“

  “Shaw has decided to let you have Charles for six months of every mortal year,” Angel scowled. “And Charles will return to the surface for the other six months. The custody of the child will be decided privately between the two of you as you see fit.”

  “His mother has as much right to be with him as you do,” Angel said coolly. “So Shaw decided to be fair—“

Erik snorted. “More like tried to avoid another feud, you mean.”

Angel didn’t grace that with a direct answer. “You have six months, and then I will return to collect Charles.”

Then she was gone, and Erik was furious, while Charles merely pressed his face to Erik’s shoulder, his own shaking minutely with emotions that could not be entirely kept at bay.

  “You’re my beloved,” Erik held Charles close, speaking against the hot and smooth skin of his temple. “The bearer of my children, and the light the paves the way in the darkness that is my existence. I would sooner end myself and unleash the horrors of the dead on the living to deprive the gods of all their infinitely stupid enjoyments, than surrender you.”

  “I know, Erik,” Charles’s voice was muffled and so soft, Erik nearly missed it. “I know, and I love you only more for it. But if you will not think of the mortals or the gods, then think of me. Of your child. And how much more difficult it will be for the three of us to be together if you act against Shaw’s will.”

  “He is not my master, and I am not some pet dog of his to call to heel,” Erik fumed, and in the background, Cerberus made a sound that was vaguely affronted. “He is my brother, and he was the one who told me that kidnapping you would make you fall in love with me—“

  “What?” Charles reared back, incredulous. “You mean my _father_ told you to kidnap me?”

Erik’s mind froze. Was that something he shouldn’t have told Charles? What if Charles thought he’d forced him into loving Erik? What if Charles was disillusioned and would hate Erik from now on? What about their child?

But even then, he could not find it in himself to lie to his beloved. He had never lied, and he certainly wasn’t going to now, or any time in the future, least of all to Charles.

  “He didn’t tell me to do anything,” Erik amended, eyes searching Charles’ expression for any hint of betrayal or disgust. “He suggested it, and in retrospect, I believe he was joking at the time. But I took his ‘advice’ seriously.”

  “Oh, Erik,” Charles gave a weak chuckle, and Erik was relieved because it meant Charles wasn’t upset with _him_. “I don’t think you were supposed to, but I’m very glad you did.”

  “As am I,” Erik kissed his brow, unwilling to let go of Charles even if it was just for a moment. He’d been apart from Charles only a few weeks, only slightly less than two months, but it had felt like an eternity wedged uncomfortably under his breastbone.

  “Take me to bed,” Charles’ eyes were red-rimmed and still bright with the large quantity of tears he’d shed, tears Erik wished he’d never had to shed at all. “And stay with me.”

  “Always,” Erik vowed, picking Charles up into his arms as if he weighed little more than half a bale of hay. “For as long as you will have me.”

  “Always,” Charles repeated, his voice barely above a quiet exhale. He was asleep before his head even touched the silken pillow in the room they shared.

* * *

Erik smoothed the hair away from Charles’ face as he passed by his beloved to sit at the desk he had installed in the library he’d given Charles so that he might look upon his love even while he worked.

  “I hate you,” Charles said, rather calmly.

A few months ago, Erik would have recoiled in shock, then proceeded to prostrate himself on his knees to beg Charles’ forgiveness and love once more. Now, he chuckled and pressed a firm kiss to Charles’ cheek before settling himself in the ‘monstrosity of a chair’ (Charles had a great penchant for giving Erik’s things very exaggerated nicknames) behind his desk. He was halfway through sorting and accounting for the judged souls for the day when Charles made a cranky, cross noise.

  “Charles? Are you—“

  “You would do wisely to rethink asking after my welfare, Erik,” Charles shot him a glare that was greatly reduced in its desired impact by the way Charles was esconced on the bay window, wrapped up in dozens of throws and blankets and pillows. “ _Again_.”

  “Then what’s bothering you now?” Erik asked patiently, well used to a heavily fecund Charles griping over the aches and pains of his swollen belly and the difficulties of adapting. Of course, that didn’t mean Charles held no love for the child in his stomach, but it did mean that Erik was fast on his way to learning how to be an efficient manservant if he wanted to keep himself in Charles’ favor, and from being made to sleep in another room from his beloved.

  “Your offspring is taking great pleasure in kicking my bladder,” Charles sighed, and Erik had to stifle a grin when he noticed the familiar pattern of how Charles always referred to their child as _Erik’_ s _offspring_ instead of _our_ _offspring_ when he was made to endure discomfort at their child’s whims.

  “Ah,” Erik coughed to hide a smile. “It’s good, isn’t it? It means she’s of good health, and of good strength to grow.”

  “Good for her,” Charles grumbled, putting away the scroll he was reading to rub the ripe curve of his belly. “Tiring for me.”

  “Come here, love,” Erik beckoned, easing back his chair so that there would be room for Charles on his lap.

Charles levelled an scornful look at him. “If you think I’m going to join you on that ridiculous mon—“

  “—strosity of a chair?” Erik grinned and Charles scowled.

  “Don’t be insufferable, Erik,” Charles sniffed, and Erik smiled but said nothing of how Charles was getting up (if awkwardly, to accommodate for the new weight on his front) and slowly arranging himself in Erik’s lap anyway. “Nobody likes an insufferable bastard.”

  “Except you,” Erik could tease, now that he was rubbing that part of Charles’ back where he knew it was aching and the swell of his belly where it was sensitive. “You love me, that’s why you’re here, with my child in you, on my lap.”

Charles turned a bright pink, and he smacked Erik’s shoulder as he made a noise of outrage. But he couldn’t deny it.

  “I love you, too,” Erik smiled, kissed Charles’ cheek, then waiting for him to turn his face so he could kiss his pouting lips as well. “Like a man dying of thirst loves a glass of water.”

  “Romantic,” Charles said dryly. It _had_ started out as a means of showing affection, of being romantic and assuming their days of sweetly hesitant but passioante courtship once more… and then gotten out of hand by becoming extreme and sometimes even morbid. It was funny, and sometimes it was charming (in a way that Charles vocally disapproved of, because he had to frown upon such things, even though he secretly filed away each one for retelling someday, perhaps to their child when he recounted the passion with which they loved), and Erik always made it a point to tease Charles with his drastic metaphors for love.

  “Only for you, my love,” Erik grinned that wide, toothy grin of his.

Charles was about to reply, but his mouth gave way to a huge, gaping yawn and he blinked several times, almost as if he was befuddled.

  “Alright,” Erik gathered him up in his arms as though he still weighed nothing, and Charles had long since learnt to give up resisting this, instead automatically putting his arms around Erik’s neck. “Time for a nap.”

  “Are you going to come with me?” Charles was aiming for playfully seductive, but all Erik saw was adorable.

  “Anything you want, darling,” Erik smiled.

It had been a miraculous, beautiful and extraordinary thing, watching Charles regain his footing with Erik and their child growing in him. The pallor from not sleeping and not eating on the surface began to give way to rosy cheeks and bright eyes under Erik’s careful care (that they made love on every horizontal—and sometimes vertical, when Charles was up to it—surface once Erik had ascertained it would do neither Charles nor their child any harm was a fact that needed no saying), and soon Charles’ smiles were lighting up Erik’s days and his laughter was brightening the corridors of their home once more.

Charles had embraced pregnancy with both grace and eager delight, frequently seeking Erik out for cuddles and kisses to reassure himself that yes, this happiness was real and tangible. He fairly _glowed_ and positively _radiated_ joy… when he wasn’t cranky about having to get up and pee, putting up with boisterous complaints of cramped space from their unborn child, and when Erik was unavailable to offer foot or back rubs.

Erik often spoke to their child in Charles’ stomach, whispering promises and vows of unwavering love and protection. He would tell their child that they would be loved by _both_ his parents, that they would never turn them aside for anything, that their arms would always be open for reassurance and comfort. Charles would thread his fingers through Erik’s hair whenever he did that, a soft and fond smile on his face.

But while their days passed in unadulterate bliss and joy, a small, despised and despairing part of Erik that counted and hoarded the days with desperation. Six months seemed like a lovely, long time when one first begins, but with only a handful of days left till Angel’s return to retrieve Charles for his mother, it felt like sand escaping between the gaps of Erik’s fingers.

It meant not waking up to Charles’ slow breathing and soft, delicious skin. It meant being unable to reach out and just touch the beautiful swell of their child in his belly, feeling their future together budding just below the surface. It meant that Charles would bring their child into the world on the surface, that it would be months before Erik ever got to meet them.

It hurt, not unlike when Charles had left for the first time, and he suspected that it would always hurt, like a tarnished and blunt knife twisting itself in his chest for as long as they were apart.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHECK OUT THIS AMAZEBALLS ART BY pietr_ro (ar_minn) OF CHARLES AS PERSEPHONE (I FRICKLING SCREAMED):  
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/3061451/chapters/6643283?show_comments=true&view_full_work=false#comment_20884697


	12. δώδεκα: What I Would Give

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik and Charles part for 6 months, and they would really rather not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for the delay, and even more sorry that this is only a short filler chapter.

  “Don’t look like that, my love.”

Erik would have been better convinced that Charles was holding his composure together if his voice hadn’t cracked on the last word. As it was, Charles looked only a _little_ like he was going to punch Angel in the face, grab Erik’s hand and make a run for it. So Erik took his cue from Charles, and managed to make his smile seem marginally less like a grimace, reaching out one trembling hand to smooth a stray curl from Charles’ warmer-than-usual forehead.

The swell of Charles’ belly was too prominent to be anything but pregnancy, as odd as it seemed on one who still maintained the masculinity of a young man just out of puberty, all peaches and cream skin with feverishly bright blue eyes. Erik drank in the sight of him, glowing even in the misery of the moment, lips bright red and subtly on the verge of bleeding from being bitten too hard. The fabric of his toga tented over his belly, and his hands were clasped too tightly over it to be relaxed.

They had known this day was coming. But no matter how much they’d _not_ talked about it, how much they’d mentally braced themselves for the pain that it would bring… it would never ease the ache that seemed to rend them into pieces. Every touch they traded seemed to linger, like the ghost of a flame over skin, not enough to burn but enough to bring a warmth alive.

Erik knew that they were trying to stave off their last kiss, their last hug, their last word. It wasn’t their last forever, that was one small mercy, but he would rather they never had to suffer this at all, not even for some pitiful six months that would seem like a blink of an eye to any other immortal. But even that choice of which would be their goodbye was taken from him as Angel rolled her eyes and clapped hands on Charles’ shoulder. His heart gave one aching thump, and Charles was gone.

Cerberus managed to thrust a head under his master’s elbow, just in time before he nearly toppled over at the weight of something unspeakable crushing his chest. It wasn’t unfamiliar, but it was no less unwelcome. He had learnt to live with it before, had learnt to survive with it even while it had settled vicious roots under his breastbone and slowly squeezed his heart in an unrelenting phantom grip.

He would deal with the next six months. He would deal with Charles delivering their child into this world without him. He would deal with his child not knowing his other father for a few weeks, less than a handful of months at most.

He would, because there was nothing else he could do.

* * *

Charles had taken to seclusion in the same meadow where he’d met Erik for the first time, finding it rather sparse as it recovered in the wake of what the humans had termed the strange cold weather ‘winter’. He knew better, of course. His mother had been unhappy about having to compromise, though her dissatisfaction had much more to do with her pride than her love for her son, and declared her intentions to throw a six months tantrum every time Charles went back to Erik.

She’d demanded that Erik be denied access to the surface in compensation for even having to tolerate such a compromise, and Shaw had had no choice but to grant her that. So now Erik couldn’t even sneak aboveground and steal a few precious moments with his beloved, and Charles was bereft of the company of the only one who could provide him with the company and the affection he so desperately desired.

Now, his hand traversed the span of his stomach, where under the skin was his and Erik’s child, fighting for space to grow. Normally it would be Erik’s hands on his belly, his warm and solid body at Charles’ back, and his breath on Charles’ cheek as he silently but obviously marvelled over the miracle that was their unborn child. He would patiently put up with Charles’ endless complaints, his grouchy demands, and chase away any insecurities about himself that arose as his body changed.

There was nothing on the surface that offered such devotion or affection as Erik did, and therefore there was nothing to fill the aching void that took residence in his chest like a gaping crevasse with inky depths unknown. He rubbed circles into his belly as his unborn child turned somersaults inside him, perhaps taking delight in his father’s touch. He or she had only begun moving enough to be felt last week, and Charles had cried when he felt the butterfly-like sensations under his fingers because he would have given anything for Erik to have been there to feel it with him, to share in the joy of their child’s growth. It was a milestone that they should have been able to celebrate, together. Not just Charles weeping in equal parts delight and miserable loneliness, alone in his ostentatious room in Olympus.

Upon his return to the revered palace of the gods, he had endured the faux sympathy of those who knew nothing of what he was going through and had no wish to know anything of it. He had tolerated simpering remarks about how Erik must be ‘marvelous in bed’, or how Charles must have ‘lain back and thought of Olympus’. The less tactful (and more spiteful) threw bitter, vicious words like how Charles was appearing ungainly as of late, was it perhaps due to a change in diet? He’d retired from his ‘welcome home’ banquet, citing his fatigue from late gestation as an excuse. Everyone had shrugged and poured themselves more nectar, and Charles knew that his ‘return’ was little more than a similarly thinly-veiled excuse to party rambunctiously.

He’d retreated to his room, pulled up the covers and tried to pretend that Erik was spooning him from behind, that it was his hands that Charles covered over his distended abdomen. A few tears may have soaked the pillow as he begged Jason, he who was called ‘Morpheus’, to grant him reprieve with dreams of being _home_ , in Erik’s arms.

There was little to be done, other than while away the days with mindless weaving of flowers and perhaps the occasional visit to offer the boon of flowering and greenery to the places where his mother’s wrath still lingered in cold and dead earth, where his body allowed the exercise. Animals greeted him with more eagerness than they used to, coming out of a strangely long sleep that the cold seemed to have induced. His fertility brought back life in the wake of a season of frost and passing, where it seemed that much life had been lost when they failed to adapt to coping with the drastic turn of the weather. No doubt Erik’s workload must have increased, but the way he coddled Charles in their time together, he must have been compartmentalizing away the stress.

Oh, Erik. The gods on Olympus mocked and ridiculed him, making fun of his ‘doom and gloom’, and mistaking his sense of duty for being a bore. It infuriated and incensed him, but there was nothing to be done, nothing that would change a perspective that had set itself in stone over the course of centuries.

So he waited, and made promises with his and Erik’s child that once they returned to Erik’s arms, to his unwavering loyalty and affection, they would make up for all that and more.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out this amazeballs art by pietr_ro (ar_minn) at this link! No seriously. Check it out. I mean it.
> 
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/3061451


	13. δεκατρείς

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meet Charles' and Erik's baby.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so so so so so sorry that I have not been updating, I've been swamped since school reopened and buried in studying for my tests and exams.
> 
> For this chapter, I know some readers can be squeamish about graphic birth scenes, particularly where Mpreg is involved. So I decided to just give a non-graphic snippet of the birth and just plunge headfirst into the reunion. I'm sorry if this disappoints *kowtows*

Charles gripped the silk sheets with white knuckles and bit back a scream as yet another contraction ripped through his weakened body, writhing his way through it until the pain faded (if briefly) and he collapsed red-faced and sweaty. His breaths came in uneven, heaving pants, and he was momentarily grateful that he had not gone through with the panic-induced notion of calling for attention or aid. The idea of being vulnerable, of needing help when he was conducting a silent rebellion on Erik’s behalf (and if he was being totally honest, to indulge his selfish anger at having to be separated from his beloved for six months) was both outrageous and insulting. At least, that was what he felt during the interlude between each contraction, at which point he had to bite his tongue from calling out for someone like his mother or Jean.

His belly looked more like a round mountain than a hill at present, swollen and heavy with a child that was making very pointed, painful demands to meet the world. Charles was equally eager to meet them, too, but he did wish they could be a little gentler on his body. He wasn’t looking forward to the next stage of the birth, but if this pain meant bringing a smile to Erik’s face when he went home to his arms with their child in his own, it was worth it.

He only wished he didn’t have to endure this alone, that Erik could have been there with him, pushing the hair out of his eyes and providing some form of support, both physically and emotionally. It would have been lovely, Charles thought wistfully.

The next contraction came roaring at the shores of his consciousness like one of Janos’ riptides, and Charles surrendered to the pain with a scream.

* * *

Erik looked for all the world the epitome of a patient, understanding god, standing tall and proud and unwavering on the front steps of his fortress.

But behind his back, his hands were clasped and clenched so tightly his bones might have broken had he been a mortal man. His face was an unreadable blank mask, but his eyes betrayed the slightest hint of wearying forbearance and desperate hope.

For today marked the end of six mortal months, and Charles was meant to return to his side.

Charles and their child. No word had reached him in Hell of their child, though he knew Charles had most definitely delivered him or her in the time they’d been apart. His only hope was that Charles had not rediscovered a passion for the surface world, a passion that might surpass what he felt for Erik. If Charles ultimately decided to stay on the surface world, and introduce their child to the wonders of it over the meager, gloomy offerings of Erik’s domain…

Erik wasn’t sure he could endure that. Not without consequences.

He practically choked on a nervous swallow when Angel suddenly materialized in front of him, not three fingers from his nose. Tears sprang to his eyes as coughing rattled his chest, and by the time he’d looked up again, he realized that someone else had pushed Angel out of the way and was now thumping his back (rather ineffectively, too softly) with one slim hand.

Amused cerulean eyes with unfamiliar subtle shadows coloring the skin beneath them met his, and Erik teared up again for an entirely different reason as he reached out to touch, to reassure himself that after six months of waking up to find nothing but empty sheets and no warm body, this was real. His fingers grazed soft, warm skin, and he was just beginning to accept that this was _real_ , and Charles was truly _here_ again.

Then someone very tiny in Charles’ arms cooed and Erik nearly choked again as he looked down sharply to see eyes just like his own gazing back up at him with unflagging curiosity and open wonderment, set in a chubby, squished-up little face and tiny fists curled by the ears, tightly swaddled up.

  “Charles…” Erik couldn’t breathe; it felt like someone had punched him in the chest and then thrown him around a bit. “Is this…”

  “Erik,” Charles’ voice, so beautiful and sweet after six months of not hearing it, wavered as he smiled beatifically. “This is our daughter, Lorna.”

As if on practiced cue, Lorna opened her rosebud mouth into a perfect ‘O’ as she yawned, then blinked owlishly up at her fathers.

  “Lorna,” Erik’s voice was barely above a whisper as he stroked Lorna’s hot cheek with the tip of his finger, touch barely ghosting her skin, too afraid to touch something so beautiful, so precious lest he break her. “She’s perfect, Charles.”

  “She is, isn’t she?” there was unadulterated pride and joy in Charles’ voice, and it spurred Erik into kissing him senseless, equally overwhelmed with unmitigated delight at having both his beloved and his child here, within reach. In the background, he vaguely sensed rather than heard or saw Angel rolling her eyes and vanishing off to wherever it was that annoyances like her needed to go.

The days had passed achingly slow without Charles, and the burden of knowing that their child would be born without him at his side, coupled with the gnawing doubt that Charles might not want to return.

  “I missed you,” Charles murmured, when they finally came up for air, Lorna gurgling contentedly where she was currently squashed between them. Tears brightened his eyes like jewels, and spilled over to paint transparent streaks down his cheeks. “For goodness’ sake, Erik. I missed you so much.”

He held both his beloved and their child tighter, revelling in the feeling of having them near, of being with them after months of wishing he could just _see_ them.

  “You’re here now,” Erik promised, still just barely grasping the realness of it all himself. “You’re here.”

  “Mm,” Charles seemed to inhale Erik’s scent, burrowing into his neck and cuddling Lorna closer up to his chest.

  “Come on,” Erik smiled, cupping Lorna’s head with one hand, gently, gently. It was covered with a soft dusting of sea-green curls, and she seemed to delight in his touch, smacking her lips and cooing happily. “Let’s enjoy what we have now, properly.”

Charles mirrored his exuberant joy, pomegranate red lips still as entrancing even in the most innocent of expressions, and he held out their daughter for Erik to embrace. The god of death notably hesitated upon being confronted with the prospect of holding his child; touching her was one thing, like a devotee stealing a fleeting glance of a cast idol behind gossamer privacy curtains, but holding her brought forth the terror of a hundred kinds. What if he dropped her? What if he didn’t hold her right? Worse still, what if she didn’t like him, and cried until Charles took her again?

But Charles was shaping his arms around their daughter before he could fully process a protest, and guiding his hands to support her lax body. He automatically curved around her protectively, instinct taking the reins from his reeling consciousness, and when Lorna merely yawned and burrowed into the garment folds at his chest, he felt all his initial concerns dissolve into a peaceful, tranquil happiness.

  “Charles,” Erik knew the language of a thousand nations, the dialects of hundreds of minorities, but yet he could find no real words for how he felt, holding his _child_ in his arms. He was the god of _death_ , but he had brought forth _life_ through Charles. Gratitude, love and joy were overwhelming him with its sheer depth and magnitude, knocking the very breath from his lungs as Lorna and Charles cuddled with him.

  “She has your eyes, you know,” Charles murmured, stroking the wayward wisps of startling green hair on Lorna’s soft scalp. “And your smile. All gums waiting for the teeth to grow in and look just like yours.”

  “You have given me a treasure beyond all worth and value,” Erik turned his head to give a firm kiss to Charles’ temple, and he would have slipped an arm around his waist to pull him closer if it didn’t mean losing the safe grip on their daughter.

  “And you have given me a reason to live, a reason to be happy,” Charles smiled fondly. “I suppose we’re even, then.”

Lorna gazed up at her parents with eyes that could not quite see, smacked her lips, and proceeded to wail at the top of her lungs without any preamble at all, startling Erik into nearly dropping her.

  “Ah,” Charles looked caught between amusement at Erik’s lost, horrified fumbling and resignation at Lorna’s wordless cry of demand. “I suppose it _is_ feeding time.”

* * *

 Now that they had sufficiently basked in the jubilation of their reunion, there were a thousand and one questions that needed answers on Erik’s tongue.

  “When was she born? Who aided you in her birth? Have the other gods met her yet?” they came tumbling out of him like little goblins snatching at any conceivable answer out of a warped, skewed sort of jealousy.

  “She was born just two months and three weeks ago,” Charles answered, tone placating and soothing as the three of them curled up on their bed, Charles and Erik spooning like a heart shape around Lorna’s dozing body. Erik couldn’t keep his hands off Charles, stroking his arms, cupping his cheek, rubbing his neck, and Charles seemed to revel in his touch like an affection-starved cat. “I birthed her on my own; I couldn’t stand the idea of asking for help from those who had deemed our separation a ‘mercy’.”

  “I am sorry,” Erik murmured, truly regretful. “Not a day passed when I did not wish I could have been by your side. I am sorry you had to endure it alone.”

  “Oh, Erik,” Charles said wistfully, holding Erik’s hand in his. “I would go through it again just to see your face when you saw our daughter for the first time, and when you first took her into your arms. Any trial I endured in our time apart merely proved the other gods wrong when they scorned our love.”

Not for the first time, Erik wondered how a being as perfect, pure and true as Charles could possibly exist. Only the feel of him under his fingertips dispelled the aching notion that this was but a dream, and he would wake up alone and cold in this very bed.

  “Have the other gods been introduced to Lorna?” wild jealousy was thickly coated on this last question.

  “No,” Charles shook his head, clearly amused by Erik’s possessiveness. “I warded off any unwanted guests after Lorna was born, and kept to my room. However, the nymphs met Lorna, very briefly, when they brought in food and nectar, or changed the sheets after the birth. They declared her the most adorable babe they had ever laid eyes on, and coming from the most coveted, beautiful creatures in the world, it was a high compliment indeed. The only god to have ever glimpsed Lorna aside from you and I, is Angel. And even then I did not introduce her properly.”

  “Not even your mother?”

  “My mother,” Charles scoffed. “Has neither come to see me nor say a word to me since the banquet to celebrate my return. I rather think she was disappointed about our union. Do not think me bad when I say I feel fiercely glad that she is, for if her disappointment means a more distant relationship, then I am all for it.”

Erik grinned, delighted at the rare sight of the bold, spitfire side of Charles. “I love you. Very much.”

  “As I do you, too,” Charles chuckled, and they leaned over Lorna’s head to kiss.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I deserve not your love. I am sorry.


End file.
